Apache Twilight
by Jason Abernethy
Summary: A gunfighter has to deal with not only bloodthirsty outlaws, but also a renegade band of Apaches.


                **Chapter 1**

                Blackhorn, Arizona Territory- 1878 

                John Corren stopped his chestnut gelding at the hitching post directly in front of the town's only restaurant, The Mesquite House. Dismounting, he turned to see the townspeople staring unabashedly in his direction. He knew that this particular town didn't get too many visitors, aside from a cowhand or a down on his luck drifter. Yet, this man was obviously neither of those.

                Instead of ragged clothing, he was dressed in a moderately clean gray flannel shirt, matching Stetson, and buckskin pants. A well-worn leather holster hung low on his right hip, the walnut stock of the pistol facing to the front, in the cross draw style. His boots, although dusty, were of high quality and looked to be very expensive. From the looks of him, he was either a gunfighter or at least a man who had seen much gunplay in his lifetime. This was further evidenced by the fact that although his right hand swung back and forth as he walked, his left remained immobile and ready to remove the pistol from its holster.

                He stared indifferently at the townspeople, his piercing green eyes scanning the crowds for anything out of the ordinary. Seeing that all was normal, he removed the saddlebags and his rifle from its scabbard. A teenage boy, openly gawking, sat on a wooden rocking chair in front of the restaurant's only window.

                Corren paused and removed a gold coin from his shirt pocket and tossed it to the kid, whose quick hands caught it above his head.

                "Good reflexes," Corren said. "Do me a favor, and take that horse of mine and give it a good rubdown and some water and grain."

                "Yes, sir," the kid said, excited at his newfound riches.

                "What's your name, son?" Corren asked, his green eyes twinkling.

                "Reed, sir. Reed Alton," the kid replied with a slight stammer.

                "Okay, Reed. Take good care of that horse of mine and maybe I'll slip in another coin or two."

                Without replying, Alton bounded down the steps and grabbed the reins of the horse. The horse merely stood there, not moving for the kid. Corren smiled and a low whistle escaped from his lips. With that, the chestnut obeyed the boy and followed him down the street to the livery.

                The interior of the Mesquite was lit from both the sunlight filtering through the window and a few random kerosene lamps. No waiter in sight, Corren took it upon himself to find a table and chose one near the rear wall, offering a full view of the doorway.

                Placing his saddlebags and rifle on the wooden floor, Corren sat tiredly in his chair. No other customers were inside the place at the moment, as the noon meal had occurred two hours previously. Like any other frontier restaurant, The Mesquite had its own style. A mahogany bar ran the length of the restaurant, serving liquor as well as food. The tables, including his, were covered with red-checkered tablecloths and a vase of sunflowers.

                Footsteps sounded on the veranda outside before a man entered, his six and a half foot frame barely fitting through the doorway. Corren guessed the man to be close to three hundred pounds, and not counting the protruding stomach, most of him looked to be muscular. He moved slowly, but purposely and stopped when he spotted Corren.

                Both men stared at each other for a moment, sizing each other up. The man looked away first, and as he stepped from the shadow cast by the doorjamb, Corren saw that he wore a sheriff's badge.

                Corren was in no mood to talk to a sheriff at this moment and hoped that somehow it could be avoided. But, he knew, sooner or later the sheriff would come over to his table and inquire about Corren's business in this town.

                The man stepped to the bar and rested his huge boot on the brass railing, for the moment ignoring Corren. A moment later, a woman came out from a door located behind the bar. She had on an apron and stopped when she saw the man standing there.

                "What is it?" she asked, annoyed by this man's presence.

                "Rena, must we be so rude? Just thought I'd drop in to say hello." He stopped speaking and nodded his head in Corren's direction. "Besides, we have us a new visitor. Thought I'd make myself acquainted."

                She glanced at Corren for a moment before shoving her way past the big man. A menu in her hand, she approached the table.

                Her breathless beauty took Corren aback. In a land where men sometimes outnumbered women ten to one, it wasn't uncommon for a man to become an admirer of a woman with less than pleasant looks. But this lady, well, she made most of the women Corren had met look even less attractive. She had shoulder length auburn hair and big, bright blue eyes. Her oval face met at a small chin with a large dimple, which added an element of cuteness. She was, all in all, a damn fine woman. At least that's what Corren was thinking.

                Rena Mauk, on the other hand, was surprised at how handsome the man was. A pair of green eyes stared back at her from under dark brows. His black hair was wavy and in need of a haircut. Yes, she thought, a haircut would bring his rugged features out even more. She could tell from his posture that this was a confident man, one that would not back down from any fight. Although his body was lean, she could see the bunches of muscle straining against his tightly woven shirt.

                "Howdy, ma'am," he said pleasantly.

                "Hello," she said, dropping the menu in front of him. "What…c--an I get you?"

                Immediately, she flinched at her stammering. After all, she was a confident woman herself and no handsome man was going to take that away from her. The corners of his eyes wrinkled in amusement. It wasn't often that he could embarrass a lady as pretty as her.

                Corren opened the menu and quickly found what he was looking for. It had been months since he had tasted a fine steak, and he picked the most expensive meal on the menu.

                "I'll take the Mesquite Steak with some potatoes, corn, and bread. And a tall glass of water, please."

                "Any alcohol?" she asked.

                "No ma'am. Never have been much of a drinking man." He noticed the big man's eyes snap towards him. He decided to add another comment. "A drunken man ain't worth a barrel of shucks."

                Rena watched as his eyes swayed towards the sheriff, and she found herself smiling a little. It wasn't often that anybody made a joke at his expense.

                "How do you want it cooked?" she asked, stifling the smile.

                "I've never been much for bloody meat, so well done should be good."

                "Okay," she said as she picked up the menu. "It'll all be done in about twenty to thirty minutes."

                Corren watched appreciatively as she reentered the kitchen behind the bar. Her figure was beautiful to watch, and he did so knowing the sheriff was looking on with more than a hint of jealously. Without even meeting the man, Corren knew that he would dislike the man.

                As soon as Rena entered the kitchen, the sheriff ambled over to Corren's table and sat down without asking permission.

                "The name's Jefferson Parsons," he said, without extending his hand. "I'm the sheriff of this here town. And who might you be?"

                Corren sat silently and studied the man. Now, with ample light on both men, Corran could see the reason for the sharp look from the sheriff when he had made his comment about alcohol. Parsons' eyes were bloodshot, an obvious sign of a hangover. Moreover, his face was red and his bulbous nose showed signs of broken blood vessels. All in all, Parsons' was quite an ugly man and Corren could see why Rena had a hard time looking him in the face. Or was it something else? Corren intended to find out.

                "I asked you what your name was, feller," Parsons said, even more forcefully.

                "Yes, you did. And I didn't answer. As long as I don't make trouble, there's no reason for you to know my name." He paused for effect. "If I decide to stick around a bit longer, then perhaps I'll tell you my name. I'll tell you when I'm good and ready."

                This last comment sent Parsons leaping from his chair, his face contorted in rage. "No man talks to me that way! No man!"

                Corren remained seated, his face calm and his breathing even. He had correctly gauged the man as one who thought himself to be above most men and not accustomed to smaller men talking back to him. However, Corren was not the least bit afraid of the man. He had met many just like him all over the west. Men who thought that their word was final and that anybody who didn't listen at first; would eventually listen through force.

                "Sheriff Parsons," he said, trying to sound sincere. "I didn't come here to start trouble. I just came looking for a few days rest, a couple of baths maybe, and a cozy bed to sleep in. You, as well as I, know it is rude to ask men their names unless they offer it first."

                Parsons seemed to accept this bit of logic and slowly lowered himself back into his chair. Corren allowed himself a slight smile, an assurance that he was trying his best to be friendly.

 Parsons also did his best, pretending that he accepted this man's apology. Had his head not been throbbing, he might have even taken a swing at the thin man. But it was too late for that now and Parsons was not in the mood for continuing his outburst.

"A few days, huh?" Parsons asked. "Any trouble from you in those few days and I'll drop you like a sack of beans. Understand?"

"I don't take too kindly to idle threats, Parsons." He leaned forward. "So, why don't ya just leave me be to eat my food in peace. It's been a pleasure."

His last words dripping with sarcasm, Corren bent over and opened his saddlebags. He removed a worn leather book, its pages dog-eared, and began to read from it. His eyes focused on the pages as he ignored Parsons, acting as if he were not sitting less than three feet from him.

Parsons could feel his face and neck begin to flush. How dare this two-bit gun hand, or whatever he was, talk to him in that manner! This was Parsons' town and he intended to keep it that way. If he had to eventually drag this man from town at the end of a rope, well, then he would. Brushing these thoughts aside, he arose from his seat and exited the restaurant.

Corren continued to read, his eyes never leaving the pages even after Parsons' big frame was out of view. In a land where most people were illiterate, Corren was fond of reading books. And this was his favorite book. 

"I can't believe you did that," came Rena's voice. Her pretty face was peeking out from behind the kitchen door, her eyes wide.

"I don't usually go seekin' trouble," Corren said, lowering his book. "But, something about that man just rubs me the wrong way. How long has he been the Sheriff?"

She came from behind the store and leaned on the bar, he face thoughtful. "Well, I think it's been about a year or so. He rode in here one day and talked the mayor into giving him a job."

"I see."

"He's a bully, you know," she said angrily. "All he does is get drunk and beat up on people. Some of the men have been trying to figure a way to get him out of town. But they're scared."

"Scared of what?" he asked, placing the book upon the table.

Her faced paled a little at the question. Uneasily, the looked through the doorway to make certain that nobody would overhear her. Thankfully, Parsons had probably gone back to his office, where he kept an ample supply of imported whiskey.

"There's rumors that he's the head of a gang of outlaws that rob people traveling from town to town. The robberies always seem to occur within twenty miles of here."

"Do you believe the rumors?" he asked, interested.

"Honestly," she said. "I think I do. Have you ever heard of man by the name of Daz Morgan?"

"Yes," he said simply. Daz Morgan was a well-known gunfighter. He was reputed to have shot down ten men in various gun battles. And not all of the gunfights were fair, as a few of his victims had been shot in the back or were unarmed.

"Well," she continued. "I've heard talk that Jefferson and Daz are good friends. More than one man has claimed to see them together in some of the surrounding towns. They wouldn't be seen here together, though."

If these men were friends, as Rena had clearly stated, then Corren could believe that they were responsible for the attacks on travelers. Parsons had a way about him that just smelled of trouble, thought Corren. He knew that he would have to face the man sooner or later, that much was clear. Whether they fought with fists or guns remained to be seen. But Corren knew that, either way, Parsons must be run out of town.

"May I call you by your first name, Rena?" he asked pleasantly.

She smiled, a smile that stirred up something inside of Corren. "Well, you just did, didn't you?"

"I sure did." He smiled back. "Rena, men like him don't last very long. Most of the time they move from town to town and bully smaller men around. But, when the smaller men band together and decide somethin' needs to be done, the bullies ride away."

"I see what you're getting at, Mister?" She stopped, curious to know this bold man's name.

Corren hesitated for a moment before he answered. His name carried a certain reputation and he didn't want to have to face a teenage boy looking for fame by gunning him down. Fast as he was, there were always men a hair faster and willing to kill him. But, he thought, she had asked him outright and without hesitation. He had to admire that.

"My name is John Corren," he said simply.

It was clear an instant later that she had not expected the name, for her eyes grew abnormally large and a gasp escaped her mouth. "John Corren? The gunfighter?"

Slightly amused at her surprise, he grinned. "Gunfighter is not a term I'd use to describe myself, but, yes, I've been known to use my gun a few times."

"A few times?" she asked flabbergasted. "They say you've killed more than a dozen men, not including Indians."

He had heard this statement too many times and it had always bothered him. "I never did like that phrase, 'Not including Indians'. An Indian is a man just like us. But, that doesn't really matter, does it?"

She was sorry for the remark, as he seemed sincerely hurt. "I'm sorry, John." She paused for a moment, in the revelation that she had uttered his first name. "I didn't mean it in a harsh way. It's just the saying I've heard."

Corren felt a hint of exhilaration when she spoke his first name. Maybe, just maybe, he'd ask her to go for a ride one of these days. He pushed these thoughts out of his head. He hadn't necessarily come to stay, although he had given thoughts to finally settling down after so many years of riding the rough trails and sleeping on the cold, hard ground. 

But it wasn't easy settling down when your name carried a reputation. You never knew if a man was going to come along and make a reputation for himself at your expense. He could change his name, sure. But there was always the possibility of somebody finding out.

"It's okay, Rena. I'm sorry for the momentary outburst." It was now or never. "Are you courting anybody at the moment?"

Rena couldn't help but laugh giddily at this. "No," she said. "As a matter of fact, I was waiting for you to ask me to go on a ride with you or for a nice meal."

It was his turn to laugh. It wasn't often that he had known a woman to be so straightforward. "I was getting around to it," he laughed again. "But I'm more brave when my stomach is full."

"Oh," she said, as if remembering. "I almost forgot about your food. I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Okay," he said, watching her reenter the kitchen. Just her presence alone was enough to make him happy. He would have to rethink the matter of settling down. Perhaps, with time, he would ask her to marry him. Maybe she'd say yes. What would he do if she said no? She didn't want to marry a gunfighter. Aw, to hell with it, he thought. He picked the book back up and tried to force all thoughts of her out of his head. Yet, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't do it. 

"Aw! Forget it," he muttered, throwing the book to the floor.

Chapter 2 

Reed Alton was removing the saddle from the gunman's horse when he noticed something peculiar carved underneath. Unsure as to what it was, he threw the saddle to the ground and flipped it over. On the underside was a name. And the name read John Corren!

Alton had heard numerous stories about the man, who most considered to be a living legend. In his lifetime, Corren had worked as a gambler, stagecoach driver, buffalo hunter, and Indian scout. Only only a few men supposedly equaled his prowess and skill with a gun. Alton's father had told him stories about the man. 

A few years before he died of cholera, the elder Alton had witnessed a gunfight between Corren and an outlaw by the name of Frank Pritchett. Pritchett considered himself to be a gunfighter of Corren's stature and challenged him in the middle of Texas Street in Abilene. His father had said that Corren's hand had a gun in it before the onlookers could blink and he promptly shot his challenger dead before going about his business.

Not only that, his father had also shared stories he had heard about Corren fighting renegade Apaches. Supposedly, he was cornered in a canyon by twelve warriors and gunned them all down before walking through the hot desert to the nearest town, forty miles away. 

And now this man was in his town? Alton wondered why and became excited at the same time. It was rare to have excitement in this town since the day that Sheriff Parsons had ridden in. More than a few families had up and moved to another part of the territory because of Parsons' bullying. It seemed as if the entire town was afraid of offending Parsons and stepped widely around him. Maybe Corren would kick him out of town. Or kill him if that was the case. He hoped he would do it soon.

Alton had to tell everybody. As he started to run from the stable, he remembered the dollar that Corren had given him. He had promised to take good care of the horse and he would do it. Well, he'd do it as fast as he could. Then it was time for the town to know.

The storekeeper was the first to know, as his store was the closest building to the stable. In a few minutes time, the whole town knew, as word spread quickly. As if by cue, Parsons was the last to know.

He was sitting in his office staring out of the lone window, watching as the men and women strolled by. Some seemed to be whispering and Parsons knew that it had to be about the stranger. Finishing off his glass, he was slightly startled when Reed Alton rushed inside, he breath coming in heaving gasps.

"Sheriff Parsons," he said quickly, and then stopped. Not only did he want to catch his breath, but also he wanted to see the look on Parsons face when he said the name.

Parsons was in no mood for the boy. "What is it?"

Alton stepped back involuntarily at the sound of Parsons' voice. He didn't want the man to lunge out of his chair after him, so he slowly backed away until he was in the doorway. And then he smiled. "The stranger? The man in the restaurant?"

"What is it, boy?" Parsons asked, clearly agitated.

Alton took delight in his next words. "The man in the Mesquite is John Corren!" With that, he ran across the street and took his seat on the veranda.

John Corren? Here? What for? Parsons asked himself. The name Corren was well known among men who were handy with guns. Parsons was good with a gun, too, but he wasn't sure if he would be an even match for Corren. Fists, of course, but guns? He doubted it.

Corren had said that he was only passing through. But what if he decided to stay longer than a few days? What then? Well, the only answer to that was to kill him. He hadn't spoken to his men in a few days and now was as good a time as any. 

Without wasting any more time, he slid the chair back and walked outside. It was clear immediately that every person in town had heard the news, as all eyes focused on him as he briskly walked to the corral. Quickly, he saddled his black and steered the big horse through the door and into the street. 

It probably wouldn't be a good idea to ride out at this exact moment, but right now Parsons didn't give a damn. Viciously, he jabbed the horse with his spurs, and man and rider sped out of town and into the desert.

Heading in a southwesterly direction, he came upon the outlaw camp an hour later. Four men sat hunched over, eating what looked to be the remains of a freshly rustled steer. Parsons noted with disgust that none of the men had been on guard, as they didn't seem to notice him until he was just a few feet away.

"What do you think you're doing?" he hissed.

Tran Jackson glanced up, a piece of meat dangling from his thin lips. "We're eatin', Parsons. What does it look like?"

Parsons dismounted and stuck a cigar in his mouth. "It looks like you boys are eating like a coupla pigs. Not only that, I didn't see any man on guard."

"I was on guard, but I wanted a break," the man beside Jackson said.

Parsons opened his mouth to speak, but closed it upon realizing who had spoken. Daz Morgan was a weaseled face man with a perpetual scowl. His manner was abrasive and his manners entirely lacking. Morgan was perhaps the only man Parsons feared. A true sociopath, Morgan had on more than one occasion shot a man for no reason, at least no reason that anybody but him could figure. And he was completely calm at all times, even in the most hazardous conditions. From a gunbelt with two holsters hung a pair of twin pearl-handled Colts, their handles glinting in the harsh sunlight.

"Well," Parsons said slowly, then paused. It wasn't worth pursuing the matter, as there was a chance that Morgan may become angry. And Parsons wouldn't know it until it was too late. This man had to be handled delicately. In fact, Morgan reminded Parsons of a rattlesnake, venomous and very, very dangerous. No, he'd just change the subject.

"You'll never believe who just rode into Blackhorn," smiled Parsons.

Simon Pretlow, Tran Jackson's partner, stopped chewing and spoke through a full mouth. "Yeah? Who?"

"You ever heard of John Corren?" Parsons asked.

At the mention of this name, Morgan halted eating a placed his tin plate on the barren ground. "John Corren? The gunfighter?"

"One and the same," Parsons said. "He's sitting at a table in The Mesquite House as we speak."

"How long he plan on bein' there?" Morgan asked, more interested in talking than eating.

"Well," started Parsons. "I'm not quite sure. Told me that he was just passin' through, but from the looks of it, it could be a while. I'm wonderin' myself if somebody didn't hire him to try and run me outta town."

Morgan dismissed this. "Corren ain't for hire, from what I hear. At least, not in that way. I've always wanted to meet up with him. See just how good he really is."

Parsons was enjoying this. After all, if Morgan killed Corren for him, then he wouldn't have to lift a finger. But Morgan wasn't a man to be prodded and tended to do things on his own time. Still, with the right wording, perhaps Parsons could manipulate him into shooting it out with Corren.

The fifth man, who had remained quiet up to this point, finally spoke. "Daz, you might wanna be careful with Corren. He ain't no tinhorn like you may be thinkin'."

Morgan glared at the silver haired man with contempt. As a matter of fact, he was getting quite tired of Henry Brady. An older outlaw, Brady had only recently joined the gang. Morgan disliked him intensely, but Parsons told him on more than one occasion that Brady was an excellent rifle shot and could be useful if they were ever pursued a long distance. So, he stifled his anger and imagined what it would be like to gun down Corren. 

Watching Morgan's expression, Parsons could tell that the gunman was considering whether or not to face Corren. Although deadly, Morgan didn't possess the greatest mind and could be swayed to do something a certain way, as Parsons had learned on more than one occasion.

"Daz," he started slowly. "You think you could take Corren? He looks tough."

Morgan's beady eyes bored into Parsons face. "You're damn right I could take him," he sneered.

"Tell you what," said Parsons, reaching into his vest pocket, where he removed a leather pouch. "If you can kill Corren, I'll pay you an extra five hundred dollars in double eagles."

Unable to resist such a temptation, Morgan leaped to his feet and spilled the contents of his plate into the desert sand. "Five hundred dollars? Just for killing him?"

"Yep. Consider it a wager, if you must," smiled Parsons innocently.

Licking his lips, Morgan thought about all that five hundred dollars could buy. And he wouldn't have to share it with his cohorts. No, it was his money and he wouldn't share it. He could take a nice little vacation in a nearest town, not including Blackhorn, and shack up in a fancy hotel room with a woman or two. Hell, maybe even three, if he so desired. Unknown to Parsons, he would have killed the man for half that, but who was he to spoil it?

"When do you want me to do it?" he asked, wiping the remnants of food onto his greasy shirt.

"Tomorrow would be good," said Parsons. "Make it around noon, if you can."

"Hey," Jackson moaned. "I wouldn't mind seein' this."

"Me either," Pretlow exclaimed. "We should be able to watch."

Before Brady could place his complaint, Parsons held up a hand for silence. "Tell you boys what. If Morgan kills Corren, I'll let you ride into town for one day." He held up a single finger. "One day. You can drink all you want at the saloon because I'll be away on a little trip."

Begrudgingly, the three men agreed to the terms. Watching a shooting was one thing, but being able to drink it up and raise hell were another. They could watch people get shot any day. With luck, maybe Parsons would spare them a few extra dollars to partake in all the town had to offer.

"It's settled, then. I'll see you at noon tomorrow," Parsons said, remounting the black. 

The men watched him ride into the shimmering heat waves before returning to their meals. Morgan, with other things on his mind, was no longer hungry and returned to his guard position on the butte. After tomorrow, he would ride off and leave these sweaty men to deal with Parsons themselves. And nobody would stop him.

**Chapter 3**

After Corren was finished with his meal, he paid for a room at the boardinghouse, run by a kindly old woman named Mrs. Fentress. As it was, Corren was the only occupant besides herself, as visitors were far and few between. Along with the room, he was entitled to three meals a day and from what he could gather, Mrs. Fentress was the best cook in town.

Rena had sat as his table during his meal and he had enjoyed the company, as hungry as he was. He learned that she was a widow, which he had not expected because of her seemingly young age. Her husband, a military man, was killed during a botched robbery attempt on a stagecoach in which he was a passenger. After his death, she had sold their home and moved to the nearest town, which happened to be Blackhorn.

Luckily, for it was harder on women than on men in the open west, she was able to reserve a job for herself as a waitress and sometimes cook at the restaurant. The owner, a nearby rancher whose name Corren didn't know, offered her more money to manage the place while he attended to his cattle.

Now twenty-seven, Rena lived in a small home at the edge of town and had no children. Corren listened her story with rapt attention and became even more enamored with her. She seemed to enjoy his company as well; at least he hoped she did. He was going to have to find out soon. They parted company only when the restaurant shut down for the day and Corren retired to his room.

As the sun dropped below the horizon, the desert air become cooler and so Corren remained fully clothed and fell asleep on his bed, book in hand.

The next morning Corren was awake before the sun shone upon the red desert sand surrounding the town. He stepped onto the veranda and watched as the sky lit up and the people began their morning chores. Mrs. Fentress awoke quite early also and by the time the sun peeked over the mountains, she had breakfast prepared.

As he ate, Corren's thoughts once again returned to Rena. It seemed as if he could recall every movement of her body, the way her mouth moved when she spoke, the way her eyes lit up when he related some of his adventures of the last twenty years. 

She was, by far, the most amazing woman he had ever encountered in a twenty-four hour period. Any other man be damned! He wasn't leaving this town until she either said yes or no to his proposal, which would come in time. Of that, he was certain.

The Mesquite House didn't serve breakfast, so therefore didn't open until after eleven. With nothing else to do, Corren asked Mrs. Fentress if there were any areas of the boardinghouse that needed repair. He regretted it instantly, for she reacted with enthusiasm and began counting off the areas, as if she was waiting for this very question.

So, within minutes, he had a hammer in one hand and nails in the other and was on the rooftop repairing the loose shingles. Soon, however, his shirt was soaked with sweat and Mrs. Fentress stepped outside with a glass of cold lemonade. As quick as he could, Corren climbed down from the roof and downed the glass of lemonade in just a few gulps.

He then took a short break, all the while waiting for a sighting of the beautiful Rena to perhaps save him from the awful chore, but she never appeared. Reluctantly, he climbed back on the roof and resumed his work.

Daz Morgan left the camp at quarter to eleven, his horse trotting for the first part of the journey. He had a hard time falling asleep the night previously, as his mind conjured up multiple fantasies that could come about if he was to receive the five hundred dollars.

No man was going to stand in the way of him receiving his riches. And if a fancy gunfighter had to die because of it, then so be it. 

In the space of fifteen minutes, the horse was already lathered with sweat. Never a fan of horses in the first place, Morgan slowed him a little but did not offer water. If he was successful, then maybe he'd buy himself a new horse, for this one was a little too ornery for his liking. 

Heat waves shimmered in the distance and the glare from the sun caused him to squint his eyes. Nothing moved in this desert wasteland, at least nothing that Morgan could see. 

Born and raised on a farm in Ohio, Morgan had never grown to appreciate the desert. It all seemed to be a land of nothingness; a land where only crazy people would try to build an existence. It was much better in Ohio, but he was a wanted man in Ohio and could never go back. 

"Maybe we'll head to California," he told his horse.

The townspeople of Blackhorn turned to look at the suspicious rider. His hat brim down, Morgan's face was not clearly visible at first. However, when he stepped from his horse, he lifted the brim for the entire town to see. Recognition registered immediately, for his wanted poster was located at various spots around town.

"Uh oh," exclaimed one man. "Looks like trouble just showed up."

Parsons had ridden out of town a few minutes previously on unstated business. Alton, resting implacably in his chair, happened to glance up at the exact moment that Morgan showed his face. This could not be good, he thought, as the Sheriff had left less than fifteen minutes before Morgan entered the scene. The gunman dismounted at the hitching post of The Mesquite House and turned to face the crowd that had gathered in the middle of the street.

Morgan, humored by the fearful awe of the men, unbuttoned his vest and rested his palms on the pistols. He became even more excited when he saw the eyes widen on some of the nearest men. Turning around, he made his way up the steps and leered at Alton.

"Hey," he said. "Why don't ya make yourself useful and go tell John Corren I intend to kill him?"

Alton glanced into the gunman's eyes and noticed they were devoid of emotion, almost flat in expression. He watched as Morgan strutted into the restaurant and disappeared from view, before running as fast as he could to the boardinghouse.

Occupied with the last row of shingles, Corren did not notice the footsteps of Alton below him.

"Mr. Corren!" yelled Alton. "Daz Morgan just rode in and says he's here to kill you."

Immediately, Corren dropped the hammer and slid to the edge of the rooftop, looking down at the messenger.

"I see," said Corren. He had not expected trouble like this so soon. Trouble, as it were, seemed to follow him from town to town. He had long ago discontinued any thoughts of avoiding it, for it had a habit of appearing no matter what. He walked to the other side of the roof and climbed down the ladder. Another glass of lemonade rested on the rail of the porch and he downed the contents.

Calming himself, he slowly buckled the gunbelt and let the holster fall to his mid thigh. Alton watched the man, surprised by Corren's reaction to the announcement he had delivered. Corren stepped around the boy and walked to the restaurant, his eyes ignoring the gawkers.

"You must be the lady Jefferson is so fond of," came a voice from inside.

"Please, just get out," was Rena's reply.

Before Morgan could answer, the sound of boot steps sounded behind him. Turning, he saw Corren's outline framed by the sunlight, his hands hanging leisurely at his sides. Corren adjusted his eyes to the dimly lit interior before moving off to the side, where his gaze fixated on Morgan's face. Both men faced each other at a distance no more than ten feet.

"Well, well," said Morgan. "If it ain't the famous John Corren. I've heard quite a few stories about you. I'm here to write the final chapter of your story."

Corren's face remained impassive as he spoke. "Really? You actually know what a chapter is?"

Bouts of laughter erupted from a nearby table containing three men playing cards. Morgan's head whipped around towards the jokesters and the laughter halted. It wasn't often, in fact closer to never, that Morgan became the brunt of somebody else's jokes. 

"No man makes a joke outta me, Corren. I'll make you sorry you ever said that," condemned Morgan, his hands ever closer to his guns.

"You draw on me, Morgan, and I'll kill you. You'd be better off hopping back onto that flea bitten roan of yours and riding away."

Dumbfounded, Morgan's mouth dropped upon hearing this open threat. The sound of sliding chairs could be heard off to the side, and he felt a wind behind him, indicating that Rena no longer stood behind him. For the first time in his life, Morgan was unsure that he could beat a man in a gunfight. Corren, unlike his other victims, showed absolutely no fear. He was as calm as a man watching drops of dew gather on dry grass.

A relatively good judge of men, Corren could see the uncertainty creep into Morgan's eyes. Morgan's body was crouched low and reminded Corren of a rattler poised to strike. And then, without warning, he did.

Without another word, Morgan's right hand dropped and scooped up a pistol. Just as he was leveling it at Corren's shoulder, a bullet ripped into his hand, severing his index finger and thumb. The bullet ricocheted off of the gun and burned a furrow into his arm. Shocked, the now useless hand let go of the deadly weapon and it clattered to the floor.

Unable to comprehend what had happened, Morgan silently looked first at the gun and then at the face of Corren. The pistol that had removed his fingers was now aimed directly at his chest. His demeanor never changing, Corren began to walk slowly towards the wounded man.

Instantly, Morgan regained his composure and yanked the left gun from its holster. A look of triumph briefly crossed his face and the gun lined up with Corren's torso. This was it! Corren would die by his gun.

The triumph quickly vanished from his gaunt face, as Corren's own gun barrel plunged into Morgan's forearm, shattering the bone. For the second time, Morgan's gun hit the floor with a thud. Before he could defend himself, he felt Corren's powerful hand grasp his throat and lift him from the ground. Like a rag doll, his body was slammed back into the counter and the distinctive sound of a rib cracking reverberated throughout the interior of the restaurant.

"You made a mistake comin' after me," whispered Corren through clenched teeth. "I'm thinking I should just snap your neck and be done with you. What do you think?"

For perhaps the first time in his life, Morgan felt absolute fear. With his guns in hand, he knew that few men could beat him. But this was entirely different. His breath was coming in shallow gasps and he knew that any second the viselike grip could tighten even more, thereby permanently barring any oxygen from entering his starving lungs.

From the look in Corren's eyes, he knew this too. Before the grip could tighten further, a whimpering sound escaped Morgan's bluing lips. Disgusted with the supposedly tough man's lack of courage, Corren released his hand from the throat and Morgan fell to the ground, where he erupted into a violent fit of coughing.

Muffled voices sounded from the observers as Corren stepped away from the fallen man. His eyes fell upon Rena, who was staring open mouthed at Morgan. He could see in her eyes that she was experiencing a mixture of both pity and disgust.

"You're lucky I didn't kill you," said Corren. "Now, what I want to know is who sent you."

Morgan, on his knees, looked up with bloodshot eyes at his tormenter, but refused to answer. Corren waited patiently for a few moments before his hand lashed out and backhanded Morgan on his thin lips. The force of the blow was enough to cause blood to seep from a cracked tooth. Without hesitation, Corren brought his hand upwards to strike again, but Moran scooted back on his haunches, his battered body protesting with every movement.

"Parsons!" he exclaimed. "Parsons promised me five hundred dollars if I could kill you."

Contemptuously, Corren lowered his hand and stood back, allowing the man breathing room. Just as he suspected. A man such as Parsons doesn't tolerate being made to look a fool in front of a crowd. Knowing that he was no match for Corren in a gun battle, he resorted to hiring a cowardly man to do his deeds.

A dozen or so men stood in the doorway of the restaurant and heard the exchange between the two men. This didn't surprise them much, for they had already suspected that Morgan and Parsons were aligned somehow. Now it was a matter of forcing Parsons to leave the town. And to every man, including the mayor, the only man pertinacious enough was Corren.

"Mr. Corren," said the mayor, a man named Jasper Higgins. "I'm Jasper Higgins, the mayor of this esteemed town. I'm willing to offer you one hundred dollars to make Parsons leave our town."

Corren turned to peer at the man who spoke. He was a short man with large bifocals and a rotund girth. Droplets of sweat fell from his head, which he repeatedly wiped away with a green kerchief.

"I don't want the hundred dollars. I'll make him leave for free."

This confused Higgins. "You're willing to turn down money to make him leave? Well, if that don't beat all," he said, laughing.

It was true that Corren didn't want the money. What he wanted surprised him most of all. For in all of his travels, never once did he consider being a lawman. Sure, many people had approached him expressing their hope that he would join in the fight against the lawless, but he always politely declined. As a matter of fact, if it wasn't for Rena, he'd do the same thing again.

"Tell you what, Higgins. I'll force him out in exchange for his job as sheriff and a salary of one hundred dollars a month."

Higgins seemed to consider this for a moment. After all, wasn't it this man who had finally put Daz Morgan in his place? Corren may have had a somewhat checkered past, but as far as Higgins knew, he wasn't wanted anywhere. These two factors added up, at least for Higgins.

"You got yourself a deal, Mr. Corren," said Higgins, his hand extended.

After shaking the man's hand, Corren once more turned his attention back to Morgan, who sat silently nursing his bloody mouth. 

"Get on your feet, Morgan. I've decided it's time for you to leave town," said Corren, tugging at the greasy hair on Morgan's now hatless head. "If I see you within a thousand miles of here, I'll kill you."

Thoroughly beaten and humiliated, Morgan did not respond and instead allowed himself to be dragged through the doorway by his hair. Corren let go of Morgan's hair once they were on the veranda and gave him a firm shove with his boot. Unluckily for Morgan, his torso landed in a fresh pile of horse manure. Again, the observers laughed at this, but Morgan no longer cared. His days of causing fear in men were over for good. As it was in the west, humorous stories such as his humiliation spread like wildfire and soon everybody would know what John Corren had done to Daz Morgan.

Ignoring the laughter at his expense, Morgan stood up uneasily and headed to his horse, still tied to the hitching post. For a split second, he thought about yanking his rifle from its scabbard and shooting Corren down. But, as fast as Corren was with a gun, Morgan would be dead before he could bring the weapon waist high.

So, his eyes avoiding the crowd, Morgan jumped into the saddle and spurred the roan to the edge of town, where he disappeared a few moments later. Corren watched him go before heading back inside to speak with Rena.

She stood, as beautiful as ever, behind the mahogany bar and smiled as he came in. Hat in hand, he approached her and smiled back.

"Rena," he said. "Looks like I'm gonna be around for a bit longer. Would you mind if I was to court you?"

Her face reddened slightly, but returned to normal very quickly. "No, I suppose not, John."

He felt his heart leap in his chest yet again. How could he, a drifter and gunfighter, be so lucky to attract the attention of such a beautiful woman? Maybe it was a sign of some sort, signaling to him that it was time to give up riding the lonely trails. Corren had never been much of a God-fearing man, but he quietly thanked the heavens for the chance he was given.

"Well, then." Suddenly he realized that a group of people were gathered behind him and were listening to their conversation. But, he didn't care. "Tomorrow we can go for a ride and maybe a picnic. Would that be okay with you?"

Although she knew him to be a hard man, Rena found it surprising that such a man could possess such a youthful quality. He seemed so boyish, this man who had just humiliated a known gunfighter. Yet, she knew that everything he said to her was honest. He would never lie to her. This, she knew, more than anything else. This would be the man she would marry and this was the man who would protect her and cause irreparable harm to anybody who should cause her pain.

**Chapter 4**

Relaxed in the saddle, Parsons rode into town thinking that Corren was dead and his problems solved. However, once he saw the "dead" man lounging against the awning post of the restaurant, he knew that Morgan had failed. Besides that, as far as he could see, Morgan nor his horse were anywhere in sight. Did he change his mind somehow? Parsons highly doubted it, for the five hundred dollars promised him was too much to decline. But where was Morgan or his horse? Had Corren killed him? Parsons intended to find out.

Patiently, Corren watched the big man dismount from the black horse and tie the reins to the post. Unbeknownst to Parsons, Corren had ordered the townspeople inside their homes in case a gun battle should occur. The people had done so, but now they peered from behind their makeshift curtains at the two men.

Parsons knew something was wrong as he noticed that the door behind Corren was closed, whereas it was always open at this time. No movement or light escaped the windows and all was still, even on the street. He tried to remain calm, but found that his mouth had become inconveniently dry and he gulped.

"A friend of yours stopped to see me today, Parsons," started Corren.

"What friend would that be?" asked Parsons suspiciously.

"A dry gulchin' skunk by the name of Daz Morgan. Ring any bells?"

"Not that I can recall," replied Parsons, with Corren looking into his eyes.

"No?" challenged Corren. "I'd say you were a liar."

This was it, then. Corren had publicly announced that Parsons was a liar, something you didn't call a man in the west, for a man was only as good as his word. Right then, Parsons knew that if he were to pull his gun out, he would die instantly. Parsons didn't consider himself to be a coward, but there were times when one had to swallow his tongue to prevent injury.

"Corren," answered Parsons, keeping his hands as far away from his gun as possible. "I ain't about to draw on ya. We both know I'd be dead. It's just too bad you won't fight me with your hands, as I'd tear you apart. And we both know that."

"Do we now?" Corren smiled slyly. "Don't put all your money into what you think is a sure bet. Your liable to lose it all."

This comment brought about a mocking laugh from Parsons. After all, he outweighed Corren by more than a hundred pounds and had never lost a fight. And this little man thought he had the gall to beat him? He must be crazy, thought Parsons.

"Go ahead and drop those guns, then. I'll show you what happens when ya talk to me like that."

"Reed!" yelled Corren. Alton appeared from behind the door and Corren handed him his gun. "If this man makes a move to grab a gun anytime during our fight, then shoot him."

Alton, even though he held Corren in high esteem, deemed this act of his to be too much. On more than one occasion, he had witnessed the harsh brutality of Parsons on various drunken cowhands. A few unlucky men had almost died because of the man's unrelenting beatings. Sure, it was past time to hand out a beating to Parsons, but Alton didn't think that Corren would be the man to do it.

Both fighters unbuckled their gunbelts and let them drop to the ground, keeping their attention on one another. Parsons stepped away from his horse and stood waiting in the dusty street. The lazy smile remained etched on Corren's face even as he stepped into the street.

Much to Corren's relief, Parsons had not heard of his fighting skills, learned the hard way from a youth spent in numerous mining and lumber camps. There had even been talk at one time of Corren becoming a professional fighter, something at which he had given much thought to. A rush of adrenaline flowed through his veins as he stopped within a few feet of Parsons, his fists raised to his chin.

"One question," commanded Parsons. "What happened to Morgan?"

Keeping his fists raised, Corren replied simply, "I merely told him he made a bad decision and he left town."

Without warning, Parsons lunged at the smaller man, his arms spread apart as if to crush. Corren had expected this and threw a quick left jab followed by a strong right hook. The first shot took the large man on the chin, while the second cut a gash into the cheek. 

Parsons was shaken by the two quick blows but still grasped for Corren. Ducking under the big arms, Corren escaped and was now at the rear of Parsons. Before the big man could turn around, Corren made a sweeping motion with his boot and kicked Parsons in the fleshy area behind his kneecap. The blow caused Parsons knee to buckle and he nearly fell, but righted himself just in time.

Turning around, Parsons swung a blow from the hip, which glanced off of Corren's chin. Faking as if to go left, Corren threw another two punch combo. The jab missed, but the hook caught Parsons solidly on the other cheek. Dazed, Parsons backed off a little and shook his head to clear the cobwebs that had formed.

Now the bigger man became more cautious and circled Corren like a large predatory cat, waiting for the right moment to strike his prey. Up until this point, Corren remained unscathed. Sweat started to form on his tan forehead and under his arms, the result of the unrelenting sunlight. Inside, he could feel the adrenaline flow increasing and his hands started to shake a little.

Impatient with the circling, Parsons formulated a plan to get his prey closer to him. So, his chin rested on his chest, he charged again at Corren. As he had hoped, Corren stepped to the side and threw a solid punch, but missed, as Parsons had stopped before reaching him. Now, mere inches apart, they both threw a flurry of punches. Parsons was slower, but a few of his hits connected solidly to the chest and face of Corren.

Corren, on the other hand, connected with most of his punches and they had a positive effect, as it was Parsons who backed away first. Both men, bleeding profusely from numerous cuts and gashes, resumed circling one another. It was Corren who struck first this time, a rocking blow to the mouth of Parsons, smashing the thin membranes to a pulp.

Cautiously, Parsons stepped further away as his answering punch easily missed the bobbing target. His tongue rolled in his mouth and he tasted the coppery liquid that was seeping through his damaged lips. He was careful now that he had personally witnessed the talented fighting of the smaller man.

The defender suddenly became the attacker, as Corren delivered another series of blows to Parsons' midsection. Unable to grab his assailant, Parsons attempted to ward off the blows, but was unsuccessful. Corren's new tactic had the desired affect, as Parsons' beating became labored and he backed off even further.

Fearlessly, Corren ducked under another blow and resumed his attack on the protruding stomach of Parsons. He was not unaffected, however, as a few punches connected with the top of his head. But, they were not as powerful as before and merely caused a slight pain and ringing sound to reverberate through his ears.

Stepping back, Corren regained his breath as he watched the big body of Parsons stumble around. Parsons was now holding his arms up to his body, a sign that he was weakening. Corren smiled at this and then started what was to be the final series of punches.

Believing that Corren was about to resume punching at his body, Parsons dropped his chin and waited for the blows to come below. He was undoubtedly surprised when Corren hit him with a solid uppercut that struck his temple. Falling back, Parsons took two jabs to the chin, causing him to lose his balance and fall into the dust. His mind became cloudy as Corren bent down and hit him again and again in the face. 

Unsure about what to do, Parsons raised both hands to his face for protection and was presented with more blows to the midsection. For thirty seconds, Corren delivered a variety of combos to both the head and body of Parsons, who lay immobile at the finish. Corren leaned back to notice that Parsons was thoroughly unconscious, blood seeming to pour from a dozen wounds on his face. The bulbous nose of Parsons was bent at an odd angle, indicating that it was surely broken. 

Queasy, Corren stumbled back and fell on his rear at the boot heels of Parsons. Suddenly, his hands began to ache and he examined them. The knuckles were bloody and the skin was hanging in shreds. Exhausted from the fight, he absently watched as Rena applied wet bandages to his hands and face. She was speaking to him, but he could not understand what she was saying, as the ringing in his ears intensified. When she had stepped away, two men grabbed him by his armpits and dragged him inside the restaurant, where they applied more bandages and forced him to swallow water, a precaution to prevent dehydration.

Parsons required four men to lift him, however. They set the body on his saddle so that he was hanging over the side. With extra saddle string, they tied his hands and feet to the stirrups of the horse. Positive that he would no fall off anytime soon, they stepped back and observed their work. Alton shoved them aside and threw a wicked slap to the horse's haunches and the horse took off at a dead run, exiting the town limits seconds later.

In the weeks following Parsons' dismissal, Corren actively participated in the discussions about town. He came to know the little intricacies and habits that allowed the town to exist. For the first time in his life, Corren was actually enjoying himself, humored and humbled by the idiosyncrasies of each and every townsperson.

More than that, he came to know Rena in a more intimate way. Each time they separated, he felt a pang in his heart. She was everything that he had ever wanted in life, and more. He was falling in love for the first time. Of course he had known many women in his extensive travels, but none had caused his heart to flutter like Rena did every time they were together.

His passion for her did not diminish the fact that he had to remain watchful of any retaliation on the part of Parsons and Morgan. He suspected that in time, one or both would return and seek vengeance. Thankfully, some of the tougher residents had approached and informed him that they too would be wary of any strangers.

Aside from an occasional drunken quarrel, Corren's job remained relatively simple and he enjoyed it. Every fight was solved with fists, for he stated that all participants in a gun battle would be thrown in jail, whether or not they reacted in self-defense.

Reed Alton became a constant companion and Corren was allowed to accompany him on occasional rides. There, he taught Alton how to "read sign", the term used for tracking men on horseback. Alton was a enthusiastic student and soon became talented in using firearms as well. Corren, never one to brag, nevertheless entertained Alton with stories of his adventures and travels.

Corren learned that Alton was an orphan, his parents the victims of a gang of marauding outlaws. He had been raised, from the age of five, by the owners of the town's only café. He thought of them as family, but still yearned to leave town as soon as possible. Corren tried to instill patience in the young man, but he seemed more eager to leave with each passing day. The problem wasn't so much that Alton wanted to leave, but he instead wanted to become a gunfighter of Corren's stature, and this left Corren worried.

Vastly talented with a pistol, Alton still acted as if he couldn't grasp the consequences of killing a man. Corren tried to explain to him the issues of morality involved, but each time the teenager would become abrupt and change the story. As much as he enjoyed the company, Corren still wanted to bend him over his knee and take a switch to him. But he couldn't do that.

With winter rapidly approaching, Corren set out to establish a parcel of land on which to build a house. He chose a lot two miles from town on the banks of the Colorado River. There, he hired Alton to help him set the foundation and begin a garden. 

Using timber from the numerous trees lining the banks of the rapidly moving river, they began the process of building the house on a hilly area a few dozen yards from the river. It was painstaking work in the hot August sun and they frequently had to take short breaks. Occasionally, Rena would drive a borrowed buggy out and bring them a fresh lunch.

No matter how hot it was, Corren forgot all of his discomfort upon the arrival of the auburn haired beauty. They frequently discussed marriage, with Corren finally proposing during a meal that included wine smuggled into the half built house by Alton. Signaling that he was successful, Alton leaped on his horse and trotted away, muttering about some unknown chore that he had to attend to within the town limits.

Rena, her blue eyes twinkling, suspected that something had been planned. She just didn't know what. 

After their meal, Corren guided her to the banks of the river and got down upon one knee. Tears of joy fell from Rena's eyes as he spoke.

"Rena," he said as calmly as possible. "I've been riding this land for close to twenty years without stopping anywhere for too long. I intended to do that when I rode into this town, but I knew that I couldn't leave. Not once I saw you. You are surely the most beautiful and kindest woman I've ever met. Nothing makes me happier than to see your face and that smile. I swear, that smile is enough to make a man ride through a blizzard with nothing more than his underclothes on. I'd be one to do it, too."

She laughed at this and he continued.

"All I want is to stop riding and settle down with you. I want us to live in that house," he indicated the nearly finished building. "I want us to raise children here and die old on the front porch. This is want I want. All I want. Rena, would you marry me?"

"Yes," she screamed, the tears flowing in earnest. "I will marry you, John Corren. I will have your children and we will die old one the porch."

Never in his life thus far had Corren experienced such elation as he did at that moment. They embraced as her tears of happiness flowed freely.

The first week of September arrived as Corren was making the final adjustments to the home. The floorboards and furniture were the things he wanted completed before winter arrived. Alton had completed the small stable near a shade of junipers before he helped Corren with the furniture. Using lumber from cottonwoods, the men built a kitchen table with four chairs and a bed frame. 

"We'll make the dresser and bedside table tomorrow and the next day," said Corren when they finished for the day.

Alton rolled a cigarette, a newly acquired habit of his. "You still sleeping in that little office at the back of the jail?"

"Yep. I told Rena I wouldn't move in permanently until she did, too."

"When's the exact date?"

Corren glanced at the kid who as of late had become a close friend. Although Alton was still a growing young man, Corren thought of him as an equal. Some of the baby fat on his face had begun to disappear as a result of his hard work. 

"As soon as the snow melts, I reckon. Any longer than that, I'm gonna be eaten alive by those damn graybacks."

The grayback was a common term for the louse and Corren was beginning to show bite marks on his arms and legs. Alton laughed at the Sheriff's discomfort as he mounted his horse. The sun was just beginning to drop below the mountains to the west, casting an eerie glow on the dotted landscape.

"See ya tomorrow," said Alton, turning his horse away.

"Wait," interrupted Corren, as he had just remembered something. "I've got to go help Old Man Hefner brand some calves tomorrow. Promised him in exchange for a few tools of his. You wanna come along? I'll pay you a little extra."

Alton seemed to consider for a moment. After all, Corren had paid him well for his hard work. And he did enjoy the man's company. However, there wasn't anything he hated more than cattle. To him, they were ignorant creatures whose only use was on the dinner table. "How much?"

"Well, I don't like cattle much either and with your help we can make it a one day deal." He reached into his pocket and removed some coins. "I'll pay you three dollars right now if you'll help."

Three dollars? That much would be enough to buy a new saddle, including the money he had already saved. He shoved aside any negative thoughts he had about cattle and stuck his hand out. 

                                                                **Chapter 5**

When Parsons arrived at the outlaw camp following his defeat at the hands of Corren, the men were astonished at his condition. To a man, they all believed him to be unbeatable in a fight with fists. Yet, here he was, slumped in the saddle with multiple cuts and bruises on his face. Both eyes were nearly swollen shut and his bulbous nose slanted at an odd angle.

Parsons nearly fell from his horse when dismounting and clumsily made his way to the campfire, avoiding the eyes of his men. Using a tin pot, he emptied his canteen into it and boiled the water. Morgan was nowhere to be seen and the remaining men moved off to leave Parsons alone.

Inside, he was raging and trying to figure out how he had been beaten so badly. He may have been the leader of this motley group, but he knew that they would hold him in unspoken contempt. Most of his power came from the fact that while good with guns, he was even better with fists. Any man in the group who disagreed with him knew that he would eventually receive a severe beating, perhaps even death.

But now they weren't so scared. Bullies, by nature, rule supreme over others because of the fear they inspire in men they consider lesser than themselves. That is, unless somebody beats the bully at his own game. And Parsons had admittedly been beaten.

He gently swabbed the wounds with a kerchief and sat quietly by the fire, his emotions bordering on pure rage.

"Where is Daz?" he asked, almost too quietly.

Brady heard him, though, and responded. "He never came back."

Parsons glared at the silver haired outlaw. "This isn't the last Corren's seen of me. I owe him now."

"He beat you fair and square?" It was Jackson, who had moved next to Brady.

"Yes," admitted Parsons. "Soon, we're gonna hit him back, though. Hit him where it counts."

"Where's that?" asked Pretlow.

Reaching into his mouth, Parsons removed a tooth that had loosened in the fight. Angrily, he flicked his wrist and the bloody tooth landed in the fire. 

"In his heart," was his reply.

For the next several weeks, the outlaws roamed the land in search of easy prey. They robbed a stagecoach, killing the guard, and attacked a few lone settlers, stealing their money. Word of these incidents soon reached Corren, but the attacks took place beyond his jurisdiction. So, he continued to build his home and kept a watchful eye for any trouble. 

The attacks abated at the end of August and nothing was heard from the outlaws. All posses sent out to track them returned to their towns empty-handed. It seemed as if they had fallen off the face of the earth. 

In truth, Parsons and his gang discovered a new hiding place, in a maze of canyons five miles south of the town of Blackhorn. Had Corren known this, he would have organized a posse made of townsmen and flushed the outlaws from their hideout. Instead, he was left to wonder and to wait, for he knew a man such as Parsons did not forget humiliation so easily. If Parsons so wished to exact his revenge, Corren only hoped it to be sooner than later. He did not want to marry, only to have Parsons attack him at his home with Rena.

Parsons finally struck on a quiet Saturday afternoon at the end of the first week of September. Corren invited Rena to the parcel of land that was to become their home. He accompanied her on the ride from town, following the current of the river. 

"Have you chosen any names for our daughter?" she asked.

"Daughter? Why, Rena, the way I figure it, we're gonna have us a brood of sons."

Rena and Corren shared a laugh, as it had become a running joke with them. Nearing forty, Corren wanted a strong son whom he could educate on the ways of the land. It wasn't as if he didn't want a daughter, but he wanted the first born to be a son. A son that he could mold into a strong man.

As they reined up in front of the nearly completed home, Corren suddenly felt uneasy. Nothing seemed to be out of order and no fresh tracks were located within the area, other than the tracks that they had made. Still, he swore he could feel the eyes of unwanted visitors upon them. 

As they dismounted, he removed the strap holding his pistol in place. Rena, aware of this, watched as her fiancé scanned the area. His body was ramrod straight; his eyes squinted against the harsh sunlight.

A thicket of brush moved to his left, an indication that someone or something was hidden behind it. Corren lifted his rifle and aimed at the target. Another sound of rustling brush sounded behind him and he turned quickly. Too late, a shot was fired and the bullet struck him in the right shoulder. Spinning around, he had just enough time to see the blue eyes of Rena grow wide with terror. Before he could right himself, another shot rang out. This time, the bullet slammed into his chest and he dropped immediately, his rifle harmless beside him.

Losing consciousness, he could hear the piercing screams of Rena shattering the quiet afternoon. But he was powerless to do anything, as his world soon became dark.

Alton, meanwhile, had just finished shodding his horse when he heard the gunshots. The only people who could be in the area where the shots had come were Corren and Rena. And he knew they were there, as he watched them ride from town a few moments prior.

Dropping the tools, he snatched his rifle from where it lay and jumped onto his horse, sans saddle. Riding bareback, horse and rider thundered out of town. Alton thumbed shells into his Winchester as he rode, mindful that trouble was waiting ahead. When he was within sight of the knoll that looked down upon Corren's spread, he slowed the horse to a trot. 

Without warning, another gunshot sounded. In town, he had heard two and this was the third. Like many young men on the frontier, Alton was not afraid of gunshots. Most boys were taught from an early age how to use guns, both for protection and food. His own skill with firearms was unmatched by most of the teens his age and for this he was glad.

Leaving the horse hobbled at the base of the knoll, he got to his hands and knees and climbed up the semi-steep embankment. Dried blades of grass, withered by the warm temperatures, rubbed against his hands and homespun pants. He climbed as quickly as possible and stopped only when his head peeked above the crest.

The scene below him caused him to shudder. Corren and Rena lay on the ground, pools of blood gathering beneath them. Four men stood staring at the fallen bodies, looks of triumph on their faces. Parsons, a rifle cradled in his arms, was the only one that Alton recognized, but he supposed the other four were the members of his outlaw gang.

His eyes reverted back to Corren, and much to his amazement, Corren's left arm moved slightly. This was not unnoticed by Pretlow, who thumbed back the hammer on his Colt and aimed for Corren's head. Alton raised his rifle to his shoulder and fired a round at the would-be assassin.

A yelp of pain sounded from Pretlow as the bullet smashed into his elbow, causing him to drop the gun. Alarmed by the gunfire, the remaining outlaws ran to their horses and yanked their guns from their holsters. They fired, a steady barrage, in the general direction of Alton. He rightly ducked behind the hill as clumps of dirt and grass went airborne.

When they had emptied their guns, the men jumped into the saddle and spurred their mounts away from the lone gunman. Rising up, Alton fired a five round burst at the fleeing men and was thrilled when he saw another bullet strike the back of the man he had wounded earlier.

Alton wasted no time staring at the clouds of dust caused by the hooves of the horses. Instead, he ran down the slope to the bloodied bodies of his friends. The first person he came to was Rena. A single bullet had pierced her heart and her large eyes stared sightlessly at the blue sky. Knowing it was useless to attend to her, he moved to where Corren lay.

The wounded man's breathing was extremely shallow, his chest rising and falling ever so slightly. What was important to Alton was the fact that at least he was breathing. Perhaps he could be saved, but only if he was taken to the nearest doctor as quickly as possible.

Careful not to further aggravate the wounds, the strong youth gathered the man in his arms and walked him to the chestnut. The horse became agitated, its eyes rolling back from the coppery smell of blood. Alton spoke softly to the horse and laid Corren across the saddle. Using a halter, he tied the reins around it and sped towards the town. Rena would have to be attended to at a later time.

Entering the town limits, Alton steered the horses to Doc Murphy's house. Murphy, the only doctor in town, had not as of yet built an office. Instead, he treated any maladies in a back room of his adobe home. Much to the chagrin of the townspeople, Murphy was inclined to drink heavily at all hours of the day. According to the rampant rumors, at one point he had possessed a large office in St. Louis. Furthermore, it was said that he was ousted from the city when, in a drunken state, he had caused the death of a small child.

Hopefully, thought Alton, he's not drunk yet. Murphy's home was surrounded by a white picket fence. Inside the compound, a mangy dog lay under the shade of a cottonwood, his tongue hanging from his mouth. Alton pulled Corren onto his shoulder and swiftly mounted the stone stairway.

After a few solid knocks, Murphy opened the doorway groggily and stared at the visitors. His red shirt was soiled with bits of food and liquor. His gray hair was in a state of disarray and his face was clearly unshaven. "What is it?"

Alton cursed softly. "Are you drunk already? It's not even dinnertime!"

"No, lad. I'm just trying to sleep off last night's drinking." He indicated the injured man. "Is that the Sheriff you got on your shoulder there?"

"Yes," he said, shouldering his way inside. The den was cluttered with old books and magazines, stacked wherever room was permitted. Alton kicked the obstructions aside and entered the rear room. A cot lay in the corner, devoid of any sheets or blankets. Unconcerned with comfort, Alton lowered Corren onto the bed and turned to face the doctor.

Murphy, more aware now, had an armful of bandages and a few bottles of unmarked liquid. "I'm gonna need your help, lad. From the looks of it, the bullet in his chest went straight through." He peered closely at the shoulder. "It's this shoulder I'm worried about. Looks like the bullet is lodged in there pretty tight. We're gonna have to take it out."

"We?" asked Alton, stepping back. "I ain't privy to doctoring."

"Look," muttered Murphy. "I ain't as strong as I once was, and I've gonna need your help. If you want this man to live, then you'd better get ready to help me. Understand?"

"Fine."

Utilizing a pair of scissors, Murphy cut the bloody shirt from Corren's chest. Opening a mysterious brown bottle, he poured a few drops of the liquid onto a bandage. This he used to wipe away any dirt and cloth that surrounded the wounds. Alton, following suit, did the same and within seconds they had finished. 

"We just used some of my favorite whiskey on him. You're gonna have to pay me back for that. Not every day that a man can get a bottle of genuine Irish whiskey in this land of savages," remarked Murphy.

Blood was still leaking from both wounds and Corren's breathing became even shallower. Murphy stepped back to consider the situation. From the looks of it, the man had lost a considerable amount of blood. If he continued to bleed at the current rate, he would die soon. He had an idea to save him, though.

"Lad, I need you to open up one of those cartridges so's that we can get to the gunpowder. We're gonna have to cauterize that chest wound if we're gonna save him."

"Cauterize?" asked Alton naively. "What's that mean?"

Impatiently, Murphy responded, "Just yank off the top and I'll tell ya." When Alton had done so, Murphy sprinkled a sizeable amount onto the wounded area. Reaching into his pocket, he removed a match, lit it, and applied it to the gunpowder. Instantly, a flash arose, followed by black smoke and the sickening smell of burnt flesh. Disgusted, Alton pinched his nose shut, much to the humor of Murphy.

"We have to turn him over now," explained Murphy.

"What?"

"Lad, you really are startin' to get on me nerves. I told you the bullet went through. That means there's a wound in the back. It's called the exit wound. And—,"

"Hey! Don't talk down to me, you drunken bum. I just ain't used to the sight of a man on fire, is all," interrupted Alton.

Glancing at the chest wound, Alton was surprised to see that blood no longer leaked from it. Then again, Corren was sure to have a big, ugly scar from the burn. Holding Corren in place, he watched as Murphy repeated the cauterizing on the back wound. 

"Set him on his back again," commanded Murphy.

Alton gently lowered the man onto his back once again. A minute amount of blood still seeped from the shoulder wound as Murphy peered closer. Reaching into his rear pocket, he removed a pocketknife, its blade sharpened. Calming his shaking hands, he placed the tip of the knife into the hole and began to search for the lead. This act caused more blood to leak and Alton had to occasionally swab at the wound to prevent the blood from leaking onto the cot. Finally, after two arduous minutes, they were successful as the mushroomed lead ball fell onto the floor. 

The doctor finished the process of sanitizing the wound before applying a generous amount of bandages, which were held in place with physicians tape. Wiping his sweaty brow, Murphy left the room and exited the house.

Soon, Alton followed and was amazed to find the doctor sipping thirstily from the same bottle they had used minutes earlier in the sanitizing of Corren's wounds. A look of disgust crossed Alton's youthful features. It seemed a waste. This man before him was only minutes before a skilled doctor. Now, he was reduced back to the drunk whom people gossiped about relentlessly.

"Couldn't wait any longer, could ya?" asked Alton, pointing at the bottle.

Murphy looked up from the bottle in his lap. "Tis none of your business, lad. Run along now and I'll find you later and tell ya how he's doin'. Right now, I just wanna sit and drink in peace."

Alton shrugged. "Fine. I'll come back after I bring Rena to town. When you go to sleep tonight, I'll keep watch over him."

Without waiting for a response, Alton mounted his horse and rode to the site of the shootings. Rena lay untouched, her eyes still focused on the sky above. He lifted her light body into his arms and placed her atop of her horse. Just shy of seventeen, Alton had yet to fall in love with a woman. But, he had always had a slight crush on Rena and admired Corren for the way he brought about her happiness. She was a fine woman, indeed.

The townspeople felt the same way about her and all mourned her loss. A day after her murder, they buried her under a shade of juniper in the rear of the cemetery. Corren, still in and out of consciousness, missed the funeral and was not aware that she was dead until the day after, when he finally awoke.

Once he opened his eyes, he found it hard to focus. His vision was severely blurred and took a few moments to clear up enough to see Alton sitting in a bedside chair. A concerned look was on his face as he spoke.

"How you feelin'?"

"Fi—," he coughed. His throat was parched and the act of speaking caused him immense pain. Alton handed him a lukewarm glass of water, which he quickly downed. "Fine, I guess. Where is Rena?"

Alton dropped his eyes to the floor.

"Where is she?" persisted Corren.

"She's dead, John. She was killed when Parsons attacked you at your house."

Corren's world came to an abrupt halt. Closing his eyes, he tried to picture the events of that day. He remembered hearing the rustling sound in the brush and the shots that followed. His main concern had been for Rena's safety, but he was powerless to do anything about it before he was shot out of the saddle.

He remembered the look of terror in her eyes and the feeling of helplessness he experienced as he was losing consciousness. The woman he had loved was dead? It seemed impossible. Yet, from the sad look on Alton's face, he knew it to be true.

Something inside him died. A gang of ruthless outlaws had taken Rena, his love, away from him. And because of this, Corren would hunt down every last one of them until they, or he, were dead. He promised himself that he would not mourn her now. He would wait until the end of his quest for vengeance to do that.

"Did they--?" he left the question in the air.

Alton didn't quite grasp the question for a moment. "They what--? Oh. No, they didn't lay a hand on her. From the looks of things, they shot her when she reached for your gun. I found her right beside you, holdin' on to your pistol."

Breathing deeply, Corren attempted to calm himself. Outbursts of anger would not help the situation.

"Thanks for bringin' me in, Reed. I woulda died had you not shown up when you did. I owe you one."

"You're welcome. I'm sorry I couldn't save Rena." He paused. "The town put on a mighty nice funeral for her. She woulda blushed at the sight of all them flowers."

Alton realized that this was not the right time to speak of her. It was painfully obvious that Corren was close to tears.

"John?" asked Alton. "You want me to leave for a while? So's you can think in peace?"

Corren's eyes remained closed as the muscles in his powerful jaw worked. "If you wouldn't mind. I got to think about some things. In a few days I'm ridin' outta here and I'm gonna make those drygulchin' cowards wish they were never born."

                                                                **Chapter 6**

It was on the fifth day following the shooting that Corren was allowed to remove himself from the cot. However, this didn't come without strong warning from the somewhat sober doctor.

"Sheriff," he said. "You must be careful not to aggravate those wounds. They should be healed enough for riding with a few more days."

Corren, dressed in his buckskin pants and new black shirt, checked his pistol as he spoke. "Doc, I expect they had better heal within the next hour or so. I'm ridin' after those cowards."

On the day following the shooting, Alton had followed the tracks of the outlaws for ten miles. From the looks of the hoof prints, the men were riding as swiftly as possible. After all, this was a land where men sometimes outnumbered women ten to one. Therefore, any harmful action directed at any female would result in an unforgiving and brutal reprisal. Corren, of course, knew this to be the truth. It would perhaps even help in the long run, should he gun each and every man down individually.

On the street, he felt the eyes of the men and women upon him. Most acted like they wanted to offer their condolences, but once they got close to him they saw the unforgiving look in his eyes and decided against doing so. He made his way to the home of the Mayor, who sat in the doorway, whittling a stick of wood with a knife.

Higgins looked up expectantly at the visitor, but avoided looking directly into his fiery eyes. Corren stopped when near him and removed his badge. He held it out in his hand and Higgins accepted it reluctantly.

"You sure you wanna do this? I'm sorry about Rena, but we still need us a Sheriff."

He immediately regretted making this comment, as Corren's body visibly tightened and he looked like he was about to strike him with a fist.

"I'm done with this town," muttered Corren. "I'm gonna give the house to Reed. After all, he helped me build most of it."

"So, you really are gonna go after them boys all alone?" Higgins asked foolishly.

"That's right. I'm gonna get each and every one." He looked east, towards the desert. "That's if the Apaches don't get 'em first."

"What about you? What if the Apaches get you?"

Corren turned his attention back to the pudgy man. "That's a chance I'm gonna have to take."

Before Higgins could reply, Corren turned on his heel and walked directly towards the general store. Inside, a lone clerk, a red haired man with a long beard, stood stooped over behind the counter. Upon Corren's entrance, he straightened up and tapped the counter nervously with his fingertips.

"I need enough supplies to last me two weeks," ordered Corren.

"Yes sir," he said, and then glanced at Corren's shirt. "Where's the badge?"

Corren ignored the question outright. "Just get me enough flour, bacon, pemmican, and coffee for a week. Also," he added. Get me a hundred rounds of ammo for pistol and rifle."

The clerk whistled. "You plan on going into a war?"

"No. I intend to bring the war."

Before he could ride out of town, Alton stepped in the way of the horse. "John, you sure you don't want any help? Me and some of the men, well, we was talkin'. I think I can round up about ten fellows who'll ride with ya."

"No, thank you. You stay here and keep an eye on town. This I gotta do on my own."

He steered the horse to avoid striking the teenager and spurred it to a trot. Plumes of dust floated into the air as he disappeared from view. Alton shook his head in disbelief and strolled into the restaurant.

Upon his arrival at his home, he headed directly for the site of ambush. Fresh sand thankfully covered up any evidence of bloodshed, but Corren still avoided looking directly at the area where Rena had fallen. The impatient hoofprints of the outlaw's horses were clearly imprinted behind a shade of juniper. Evidently, the outlaws had waited for an hour or more, as the remains of half a dozen cigarettes littered the brush.

Breaking through the leaves of the trees, he followed the tracks that led to the east. An expert tracker, Corren was able to determine a number of things. One, by the distance between hoofprints, he determined that the outlaws had fled at a high rate of speed. Two, after two hours of examination, he decided that the men had no idea where to flee. More than once, the men had stopped their horses and smoked more cigarettes. This hinted that the outlaws could not decide which route to take. 

This puzzled Corren, for most lawbreakers in this country ran to Mexico, promising themselves an easy escape from pursuers. Parsons and his men had not taken this obvious route, at least not yet. Instead, they were riding in an easterly direction. So, with his brain working on possible explanations, Corren rode onward, wary and ready for trouble.

The wind felt good flowing through Corren's hair as the horse ran freely. He loved this land, in spite of the hardships it caused people. The Yuma Desert lay to the south, its deadly environ waiting patiently for more victims to succumb to the hostile rules. Looking north, Corren could see the ragged peaks of the Castle Dome Mountains reaching into the cloudless sky. Everything seemed so quiet and peaceful, but somewhere within his present route held danger. 

His horse, the offspring of mountain-dwelling mustangs, loved traveling this land as much, if not more, than its rider. For more than five years, both horse and rider had roamed these lands in search of something neither could define. Perhaps it was nothing more than the thrill of seeing land untouched or unseen by more than a handful of people and animals. The ancient ruins of civilizations were scattered across this landscape, the only proof of their former habitation being hidden drawings and weather-beaten pottery shards.

Such beautiful scenery for such a hard land, thought the lone man. By mid afternoon, his face and body were covered with a fine red dust. More than once, he stopped the horse and soaked the bandanna with water, which he then placed in the horse's mouth. Because of the lack of water in the distant land, he had brought two canteens, one for him and one for the gelding. 

The Gila River lay a few miles to the north. Its cool waters only flowed so far as the Maricopa Mountains, before suddenly heading northward. He suspected that the outlaws would continue eastward and hopefully not into those mountains. If they were smart, they would hole up in the nearest town, as travel would be too risky.

Usually, it would not have mattered to him. Any man foolish enough to climb those mountains in this heat could do so at the risk of perishing. But, he didn't want Parsons and his men to perish in those mountains. Corren would rather have been the one to cause their unexpected endings.

By nightfall, he had traveled what he estimated to be thirty miles. Lack of rain in this region made his job a little easier, as the five-day-old tracks were still clearly defined. He made camp at a small stream, picketing the horse in a shade of cottonwoods. Exhausted and wincing from his half-healed wounds, he declined making himself coffee and instead spread his bedroll into the grass near his horse, which he unsaddled and ground-hitched nearby.. It had been a long, long time since he had been as tired as this. Reluctantly, he closed his eyes and was soon asleep.

At dawn, he arose wearily from his bedroll and started a fire fueled by twigs from nearby trees. Dried from the sun, the twigs created a smokeless fire. This was important, as the smoke in the desert sky can be seen for miles, especially by the trained eyes of the Apache. And Corren was in no shape for fighting the guerilla fighters on this day.

Removing a worn tin pot from his saddlebags, he filled it with fresh water and boiled it. When it had finished, he poured a cupful of ground mesquite beans in and stirred it. It was not the best coffee in the world, but then again he wasn't exactly at a café in Paris. 

He watched the horse munch on the grass while he drank the bitter brew. A quail called out from the brush near the horse, but Corren's green eyes could not place the camouflaged bird. The morning air was refreshingly cool, but would not last for long. By mid-morning the temperature would be close to a hundred stifling degrees. So, before he left his encampment, he would allow the horse to drink its fill of water. He would do the same to prevent his healing body from dehydrating in the intense heat. 

Satisfied that both he and the horse were well watered, he lifted the heavy saddle and raised it to the horse. The mustang's ears pricked up as the head swung around. Corren dropped the saddle and dove into a clump of dried brush, pistol in hand. It was not long before he heard the muffled steps of another horse not far off. 

"Hello the camp!" came a familiar call.

The voice belonged to Reed Alton. "Come on in," replied Corren, brushing the dust from his shirt.

Alton rode into the encampment with a smile on his face, much to Corren's chagrin. "What are you doin' here?" he asked gruffly.

"Figured you needed the help, whether or not ya wanted it." He steered the horse to the stream. "Havin' any luck trackin' those fellas?"

"Yes. In this country, tracks can stay clear enough to follow for weeks. Rain doesn't like to visit much."

"Well, then I guess I'll keep an eye out for trouble while you read the sign."

Corren wanted to object and tell the boy to go back home. But he couldn't. If it weren't for the kid, he'd be dead right beside Rena. Instead, he was here and ready to exact revenge on the very outlaws who had taken his love away from him. 

Although Reed Alton was only recently seventeen, he did the work of a man. The once obvious baby fat was disappearing and being replaced by bulging muscle. He had also become an almost expert marksman and had a certain cockiness and bravery that Corren begrudgingly respected.

"Fine," said Corren. "As soon as you get that horse watered, we'll be on our way. Stay alert though, for out here the town does not protect us any longer. The Apaches will lift your scalp just as soon as look at ya."

Alton stood beside his horse, chewing on a twig. "No problem. I know all about the Apaches from you and my Pa." He tilted his hat back and stared into the bright blue sky. "If we run into any, you can count on me to back you up."

"Okay. Did you bring enough supplies for a long ride? I don't have enough for the two of us."

Indicating his saddlebags, Alton replied, "Yep. Brought a few pounds of bacon, flour, and some hardtack. Got us an extra canteen, too."

"You need to use that canteen for your horse. Once we get past the river, water becomes scarce. And out here a man without a horse is a dead man without a chance."

Side by side, they rode eastward. Corren was impressed with the younger Alton, as his youthful eyes never lost interest with the country around them. The land became more rock-laden by the afternoon and Corren had to circle around a few times to find lost tracks. 

At sundown, the two men made camp in a dry hollow and watered the horses by soaking their scarves and squeezing the fluid into the horses' mouths. A tall butte stood alone on the barren plain and Corren climbed hand over hand to the top for observation. The sun was dropping below the western horizon, its flame-covered surface nearly gone from view. Using what little light remained, Corren glanced around. His eyes stopped on what looked to be a dust cloud to the north. Upon further inspection, he realized that it was not a cloud made from nature, but by man.

Or more likely, by the size of it, by more than one man. It was not entirely impossible that the outlaws to have ranged north for some reason. But that was wishful thinking. Out here, it was almost a certainty that the riders were Apaches. And it wouldn't be safe to remain where he and Alton camped, as the cloud was heading directly towards them. Sliding down the slope, he ran to where Alton was sitting on a rock whittling a piece of dry wood with his knife.

"Reed!" yelled Corren. "We gotta get movin'. There's a group of riders no more than two miles away. They're headin' straight for us."

"You think it's Apaches?"

"I'd bet my saddle that's who it is. Now, get that horse movin'. We're going to have to ride most of the night. If we're lucky, they'll make camp near here for the night and we can rest in the morning."

As they rode away, Alton asked, "How make you make it to be?"

"I'd say at least five or six. Doesn't look like a big raiding party, but then again there's only the two of us."

They spurred their mounts eastward, straight towards the looming peaks of the Maricopa Mountains. Water was very scarce in that part of the country, as Corren well knew. Hopefully, he would be able to locate the more reliable springs, left untouched by the relentless sun.

The heat reflecting from the rocks caused the area where they were traveling to become very hot. Both horses were soon lathered in their sweat and the men reined them to a slow trot. Alton could tell by the grimaces on Corren's face that his wounds were aggravated from the harsh travel. Yet, Corren remained silent and did not complain.

Every few minutes, Corren turned back in the saddle for signs of pursuit. Like an avenging angel, the dust cloud of the Indians came onward. Corren gave no more thought to tracking the outlaws, as there was a chance that these same Indians had wiped them out somewhere ahead. Besides, tracking the men now was pointless, if not altogether dangerous and foolish.

Darkness came soon and the men could barely make out any distinguishing landmarks in the starless night. Corren kept their horses facing at what he hoped to be eastward, but the stars that usually guided him were hidden behind stygian clouds, making it nearly impossible to be sure about their direction. 

Upon entering the Sonoran Desert, Alton became well aware of the change in the atmosphere. "Is it just me, or does the air feel a little different here then it did a few miles back?" he asked.

Corren rubbed the whiskers on his chin. "No, it's not just you. This is the Sonoran Desert we're in. A beautiful place, but if you turn your back or stop paying attention, you'll be dead very soon."

Alton nodded. "How many times have you been through here?"

Still watching behind them, Corren replied, "I figure I've passed through parts of it at least three or four times. Usually, though, I avoid it. Don't make sense to ride through here unless you need to. Or," he added. "Unless you're an Apache."

He was worried now, as the darkness blotted out the dust cloud so prevalent minutes before. Most tribes of Indians preferred not to fight at night, as they believed that if killed, their spirits would wander forever lost in abysmal blackness. But, there always were a few marauders that didn't accept this belief and fought anyway. Remembering this, Corren decided not to stop and continued riding.

Alton was exhausted from the day's riding and just wanted to lay in the cooling sand and go to sleep. Corren showed no signs of stopping, though, so Alton followed alongside and began to fall asleep in the saddle. His body began to sway back and forth in the saddle and he would have fallen off had it not been for the resilient grip of Corren.

"Sorry, John," he yawned. "I'm just dead tired. I can't recall bein' this tired in my whole life."

Corren understood. "I know. But, I can't watch you and the desert at the same time. Keep yourself occupied somehow. Sing a song or two if you wish, but keep it low. We don't know what's waitin' ahead of us."

"I've never been much of a good singer," said Alton, embarrassed. 

"Neither have I. But I've been known to sing a note or two when I get too tired. Thank God I haven't been scalped by Indians on account of that."

Alton laughed. It was rare that Corren had shown any proof of a sense of humor, especially as of late. His only thought seemed to be the revenge of Rena's death, which was understandable. But, to Alton's way of thinking, a man couldn't be serious all the time. If so, then he risked becoming a loathsome bore. And Alton hated nothing more than a bore with nothing interesting to say. Well, almost nothing more.

Common in desert-like surroundings is an immediate change in temperature once the sun leaves the sky. Whereas it is blistering hot during the day, the land becomes much cooler once nightfall comes about. By midnight, Corren believed the temperature to have dropped at least forty degrees. He said as much to Alton.

Alton sat rigidly on his horse, arms folded across his chest. "Yeah, I sort of figured that. I never thought it could be so hot during the day, but colder than a witch's tit at night---especially not out here."

Through the stygian darkness they rode, the only sounds being that of their horses' footsteps and the lonely calls of the night dwellers. Alton, too cold to sleep comfortably, swung his body in the saddle repeatedly to locate the sources of the sounds.

The mournful wail of a coyote reached Corren's ears and he brought the horse to a halt.

"What is it?" asked Alton concernedly.

"Coyote. Still a ways off, but that's a good sign, anyway," answered Corren, straining to hear any other sounds.

"Why's that a good sign?"

"Coyotes don't tend to travel more than a few miles from water. Wherever they are, there's sure to be water close by. Coyotes need water just as often as our horses," explained Corren.

Their canteens were nearly empty and Corren hoped to stumble across a hidden waterhole by the next day. Alton, he knew, was not used to going without water for a long period of time and would suffer much more than the more experienced Corren. A few years earlier, Corren had gone without water for three days and his tongue had swollen in his mouth. It was a chance encounter with a coyote that had saved his life. Following the tracks of the coyote, he walked directly to a tiny hole hidden under an escarpment. Clear, cold water seeped from an underground spring. That coyote was the only reason he was still alive today.

"You better hope we find that water, because the next water I know of is at least two days ride from here. Maybe more, if we get stuck somewhere due to those Apaches."

"Why should we get stuck? They have horses just like us and those horses are liable to get just as tired as ours," interjected Alton.

"I guess you need to learn just a little more about those Indians behind us. They don't need horses like we do. They were born and raised out here in this country. Apaches can walk on their feet for the entire day without getting too tired. 

"Horses just happen to be one of their favorite foods. I'm sure they know we have two horse between us and they intend to get them as well as get us."

"They eat horses?" asked Alton, disgusted. "You won't be seein' me eat no horse."

"You get put in the right position you will. Horsemeat isn't that bad. It's just meat like any other animal."

"But---," started Alton.

"Listen to me, Reed, and listen good. There's a thin line between life and death. When you come up against death, you'll resort to doing anything to keep yourself alive. Even if that means eatin' that horse you like so much. After all, horse tastes much better than that gunbelt on your waste. Trust me, I've had to chew on leather a time or two."

Lacking a substantial argument, Alton remained quiet and stared ahead. Besides, who was he to argue with a man who had obviously faced hardships unimagined by a person living a sheltered life in a small town? Corren had reasoned calmly with him and had not once raised his voice. This made Alton admire and respect him all the more.

Nearing where Corren supposed to be the vicinity of the coyote, the men stopped and rested their horses. Dawn was no more than an hour away and Corren hoped to look for signs of the traveling of water-dependant creatures. Still, he was uneasy and kept watching their back trail, allowing his companion to catch up on much needed sleep.

Sunlight filtered through Alton's eyelids as he Corren shook him awake. At first, Alton had no idea where he was. Corren stood above him, looking impatient.

"Get up, Reed. I circled around and found those coyote tracks. Let's go see if we can find us some water."

Alton had finished the remaining water in his canteen before falling asleep and was already thirsty. His mouth seemed to be full of cotton and he had to work his tongue from a stiff position. Corren was already mounted and following the tracks of the predator, his eyes close to the hard-packed earth.

Although still far from the mountains, this part of the land was very rocky and the horses had trouble keeping their footing. They dismounted and led their horses across jumbles of cracked rock. Here and there, Alton could make out remnants of other tracks, clearly not from a small coyote. Abruptly, Corren stopped and removed his pistol from his holster. Confused, Alton approached him from behind and fixed his gaze on the ground where Corren had been looking.

Amazingly, mixed in with the tracks of the wild animals were the prints of something quite different. They were the fresh imprints of boot heels.

                                                                **Chapter 7**

"How many you make out, John?" Alton asked, noticing that there were tracks from more than just one pair of boots.

"Looks to me like there's about four men. At least one of them appears injured," Corren said.

"Injured? How can you tell?"

Corren bent to his knees, keeping the pistol aimed straight ahead. "Right here. See where this print dissolves into the sand for about a foot?" Alton did. "That's a sign that one of those fellows is draggin' his left leg."

"You think it's Parson and the others?" 

Already having thought about this, Corren dismissed it. "No. These tracks are no more than a day old."

Alton wondered to himself how Corren could establish such a fact, but didn't pose the question out loud. Maybe one day Corren would teach him the tricks of tracking, but it wasn't going to be today. The base line of the Maricopa Mountains was less than a mile away and Alton stared up at the ragged peaks. To him, it seemed as if the peaks rose high enough to split the clouds. He had no experience in climbing mountains and hoped that he would not have to start today. He mentioned as much to Corren.

"We gonna have to climb up those cliffs?"

"No," Corren responded, keeping his eyes fixed ahead. "There are a few valleys that go through the mountains. If those Apaches are still behind us, though, we may have to use some of the old Indian trails up there. That'll make travel a bit slower, but they won't be followin' so fast, either."

Their fears were realized moments later as they followed the coyote tracks. Alton lagged a little behind, not wanting to disturb his companion's concentration. Reaching into his saddlebags for a piece of antelope jerky, he saw the dust cloud that had been following them the day previously. The hair on his neck seemed to stand straight up and his hand was caught in the saddlebags.

Corren was now more than a hundred yards ahead and noticed that the sound of Alton's horse had ceased to exist. Glancing back, he at once saw what had grabbed the boy's attention. A sense of dread enveloped him immediately, for the cloud had more than doubled in size. This meant that their stalkers had been joined by at least one more party of men. The only reason for this would be that the Apaches, if that's who they were, knew there were other travelers in the area.

"Reed!" he yelled. "Get your hands outta that damn saddlebag and get up here. We're gonna have to go through the canyon up ahead."

Obeying, Alton removed his hand and dug the spurs into the relaxing horse's side. Frightened, the sorrel leaped from a standing position and bolted past Corren and into the canyon. Alton nearly lost his balance and had trouble regaining mastery over the horse. Just as horse and men were about to slam into a rock outcropping, Alton yanked the reins as hard as he could. The horse slid to a sudden stop and sent Alton tumbling head over heels from the saddle and over the horse's neck.

He hit the ground with a thud and felt the thorns of a cholla bush tear into his lower back. Yelping in pain, he tried to stand again but rammed into something unmoving. Landing on his knees, he looked upwards to see what it was that had replanted him onto the ground.

A very tall black man stood looking down at him and a chuckle escaped the stranger's mouth. 

"Boy," the stranger said. "Why did ya come runnin' your horse in here like that? You could have been killed. Or killed that horse of yours, which wouldn't be good at all."

Alton just stared at the large man, who was holding a dusty Winchester in the crook of his arm. Corren rode his horse to wear the sorrel was standing and stopped. Recognition registered on his face as he noticed the man standing over the fallen rider.

"Well, I'll be," Corren said humorously. "Reed, this man who you ran into just happens to be Will Troves. You've heard of Will Troves, haven't ya?"

In fact, Alton had heard of the legendary mountain man. More than one man in town had related Troves' exploits of Indian fighting and mountain adventures to him from childhood. Not only that, it was said the Corren and Troves had been close friends for nearly twenty years.

He watched curiously as Corren dismounted and embraced his old friend. 

"What are you doin' out here?" Troves asked curiously.

As quickly as possible, Corren related the story of Rena's murder at the hand of the outlaws. Troves' granite features softened considerably at hearing the pain still evident in his friend's voice.

"Have you seen any sign of men on shod horses? One of them is wounded, too. Figured we'd have found his body abandoned by now, but it seems as if he's still able to ride."

Troves shook his head. "No, we haven't." Corren looked behind his friend and saw three other men approach cautiously. Two of the men were wounded, one in the arm and another hand a bandage wrapped around his forehead. Troves turned to face these men as he continued. "We were part of a detachment sent out from Fort Scott three days ago. We got word that Silato and his warriors were burning some homesteads a few miles south of here. They ambushed us near Two Horse Peak and killed most of the troop. These fellows and I were the only ones to escape."

At the mention of Silato's name, Corren closed his eyes and cursed softly to himself. Silato was the leader of a small band of rogue Apaches, banished from their tribes, and dedicated to the mass destruction of any non-Apache dwellers. A barrel-chested man with powerful arms, Silato was said to be able to snap a man's neck with a minimum amount of pressure. Not only that, he considered Corren to be his greatest enemy, as the latter had killed his brother in battle.

Alton, busy removing the painful thorns from his backside, stopped upon hearing the name of the Apache leader. "Silato? I've heard that he's kilt hundreds of people. Why can't somebody just catch him and hang him?"

"Reed, huh?" Troves asked. "That's a lot harder than it sounds, believe me. Silato knows this land better than any white man, including Corren and I combined. For all you know, he could be crouched in that cholla you got poked by."

Instinctively, Alton spun to face the plant responsible for his throbbing backside. "Aw, he ain't in there. No man can hide in that little plant."

"Son, you've got a lot to learn," Troves insisted.

Ignoring the muttered reply of Alton, Troves indicated the three men standing behind him. "The man with the bandage on his head and leg in Sergeant Moreau. The young buck with the arm bandage is Private Jenks and the other boy is Private Fells. I'm glad that Fells is with us, for he's the best shot with a rifle I've ever seen. Even better than you, John."

Fells' reddish face flushed even more so at the compliment. He was a slight figured man with an obtrusive adam's apple that seemed to bob up and down with every breath. Corren examined the other two men with a quick glance. Sergeant Moreau had a scraggly brown beard and determined look to him, even with the bandage about his head and another on his right thigh. Moreau's rifle, an older Spencer, was coated in dust and grime and appeared to be too battered for use. The final survivor, Jenks, stood behind both men and his eyes nervously darted in every direction. He was barely five and a half feet tall and not much older than Alton, perhaps no more than a year older. Nervous as he appeared, Corren was concerned about his fighting ability, if he had any at all.

Troves had seen the dust cloud of the Indians much earlier and knew that they would soon be near. "Come on, boys. Let's get to the water. We're gonna have to probably fight it out."

He led the five men through a maze of short tunnels and overhangs before reaching a crack in the rock where water seeped forth. A pool of clear water was located under another overhang, protected from the sunlight. Two horses stood a dozen yards away from the pool of water and their ears pricked up at the sight of the arrival of two more men and the other horses. Surrounding the water was a wide expanse of green and brown grass, enough to feed all four horses for at least a few days. There was ample shade near the grass and water and all six men walked to it. Corren and Alton picketed their horses with the others before partaking in the cool water.

"How'd you find this place?" Corren asked between sips from his newly filled canteen.

"By accident, of course," Troves said. "Jenks got his mount shot from under him, so we both rode on mine. Those devils were getting closer to us until I saw the crack in the rocks. Thought I'd entered Heaven when I saw all this water and grass."

"Did they follow you in?"

"That's the beautiful part. If ya look around, you'll see that there's only two ways in here. One, the little canyon we just rode into, which is easy to defend. And the other is up top over there," he pointed.

Corren examined the area where Troves had pointed. There were a series of cliffs populating the north wall, too narrow for a horse. And golden brown arm dangled from the highest cliff, unmoving. "Looks like you got one."

"Yep. I don't see how they got up there, but they did. Fells took him out with a headshot and the others scrambled back into the rocks. They fired a few scattered shots at us, but they didn't get too close, on account of Fells there. I reckon he hit at least one more because we heard another one scream in pain."

Troves was right, thought Corren, as their position could be well defended. Steep walls loomed above on all sides and all lacked any way up except for the north wall. Then again, Silato could somehow know of another route into their protected canyon. It was a possibility that Corren had to consider.

"Will," he said. "I think we ought to have one man stay with the horses. I think there's a possibility that there's at least one more route into here, one that we can't see."

Troves jammed a plug of tobacco into his cheek and stared thoughtfully around. "Well, you just may be right. I shoulda maybe explored the walls more, but I had to tend to these men."

"I would have done the same. Yet, if they did know another way in here, they could either shoot or steal our horses. If that happened, well, I don't believe we'd get too far on our feet."

The remaining four men stood in a semi-circle around Corren and Troves. They knew of their prowess at fighting Indians and would do what was asked of them. Alton, troubled by the obvious uneasiness of the experienced men, felt a shudder of fear reach up inside him. If these Apaches were half as good as the men claimed, it would be very hard to match them in a fight. He listened intently at the discussion, attempting to soak up as much knowledge as he could.

"All right," Corren said when they had finished. "Let's fill our canteens and decide on where to position ourselves. It's gonna be a long day."

Silato and twelve warriors paused at the entrance to the canyon. His fierce black eyes examined the general area as he tried to determine the best avenue of attack. The warriors waited apprehensively for him to make his decision.

Silato was not a man of many words, only speaking when he felt that he had something important to say. This silence, coupled with his immense skill in battle, caused his own men to fear him. An old medicine man once said that no man, or men for that matter, could bring about the death of the great Chief, as his power was so great. Only a supreme act by the Gods could bring Silato to his knees, or so it was said. Many believed this to be true, including Silato himself, because of the ample amount of gunshot, knife, and arrow wounds he had suffered in more than one hundred battles. No matter how badly he was wounded during each skirmish, he always seemed to be thoroughly healed in a matter of a few days.

The muscular Chief bent to his knees and examined the tracks of the white men and their horses. Utilizing a spyglass hours before that he had requisitioned from the body of a dead soldier, he had watched silently as his mortal enemy, Crazy Wolf Killer rode alongside a large youth. His heart leaped in his chest when he had focused the glass enough to make out the face of the man wearing the gray hat.

Many winters before, Silato and a group of warriors stumbled across a lone set of shod horse tracks. Following the rider, they were surprised to find him in a dry gully, busily attending to a fresh gunshot wound. Before they had a chance to organize an attack on the traveler, the man opened up with a barrage of gunfire from his rifle. Yellow Wolf, Silato's older and wise brother, fell from his horse immediately, a gunshot wound to the head. As the warriors regained their composure, the man remounted his horse and charged insanely through the ranks of the men, firing a multitude of accurate and deadly shots. Three more braves had fallen dead by the time Corren had passed through. He had made his escape through the eastern foothills of the Maricopas, eluding the revenge of Silato. From that moment on, the brave white man became known throughout the land of the Apache as Crazy Wolf Killer.

And now, by a stroke of luck, this man had returned to Silato's land and the Chief could only wonder what was the cause. Whatever the reason, it didn't really matter, for soon Silato intended to have Crazy Wolf Killer's scalp hanging from his wickiup. The people would sing songs about his defeat of Crazy Wolf Killer for many moons to come.

"What is in those rocks?" A young warrior named Kicked-By-The-Horse asked.

"Three Bird Springs," Silato replied shortly.

"I did not know it was there," Little Hawk said.

Silato glanced sharply at the inexperienced young warrior. "There are many things you do not know."

At the cold look in Silato's eyes, Little Hawk dropped his eyes to the ground.

Silato remained crouched for minutes, his mind on the task at hand. Knowing better than to interrupt their Chieftain, the young warriors remained silent, their eyes avoiding the Silato's face. Some of the braves were decorated with war paint manufactured from the desert plants, but Silato was different. Instead of using normal paint, he tended to bathe his face in the blood of his enemies. Now, he wore the blood of the leader of the troops they had massacred, and a hideous and scary sight it was. The blood had long since dried and was beginning to flake off in certain areas. Yet, flaked paint or not, Silato remained an ever dangerous presence. It would not be wise to risk angering the man, as the warriors well knew.

"Is that the only way in?" Little Hawk asked.

"No. There are three ways. The eagles are the only ones who know the way I will take. I will take the scalp of Crazy Wolf Killer by the next moon," answered Silato confidently. "And do not attack them until I send up smoke sign. I want to kill one or two before I kill Crazy Wolf Killer."

"And which way will we take?" asked the cross-eyes warrior, Slow Walker. Slow Walker and Little Hawk had been part of the group successful in following Crazy Wolf Killer and his friend to the canyon.

"You can take any route you want," Silato, leading his horse away from the warriors.

Little Hawk's eyebrows scrunched in confusion. "Can we follow your route?" he called after the departing Chief.

He regretted asking the foolish question when he saw the Chief turn to face him. His normally expressionless features were knotted in anger. "I alone will take the scalp of Crazy Wolf Killer. I do not need the help of young fools," he hissed.

Little Hawk quickly apologized, to no avail, for Silato disappeared around a bend without response. The other warriors were glaring at him with a look he did not like, a look of disdain. Little Hawk would teach them not to hold him in disdain. He intended to take the scalps of both Crazy Wolf Killer and his young friend, whether or not Silato approved. After all, Silato was getting older and could not remain in power forever. If he, Little Hawk, could count coup on the legendary white warrior, then perhaps he would one day inherit the leadership from Silato.

Jenks had to admit to himself that he was more frightened than he had been in his entire life. Here he was, stuck between huge walls, with men who he didn't know. At first, joining the Army had seemed a wise decision. He was not able to get any long-term job and the Army was the only place where he could garner guaranteed wages, food, and permanent shelter. 

By the end of the first week, the shelter part of the bargain had been disproved. Sleeping peacefully, he was awakened by the stiff hand of Sergeant Moreau shaking his shoulder. He was then informed, at three a.m., that the troop was to attempt to arrest a band of murderous Apaches and accompany the savages to the fort. For three long, hot weeks Jenks accompanied a group of sweaty men and horses around eastern Arizona, never once sighting the elusive Apache. Not only that, each night during the goose chase, they were forced to sleep on the hard ground and ordered to keep men on guard throughout the night. When it had been his turn, Jenks soon fell asleep. The next morning, he was subjected to a fit of rage from the Captain in front of the entire troop. It was an embarrassing moment, further augmented by the fact that that Captain forced him to attend to the shoeing of each horse for the remainder of the trip.

His intense dislike of Army life had started on that trip and had only developed more as time went on. Desertion was not an option, because with his luck he would be soon caught and become the victim of a firing squad. That was not something he wanted to chance, so he had regretfully remained.

Now, here he was, hidden in a canyon and praying for some twist of fate that would allow him to remain alive, unlike the sorry souls in his troop. If not for Troves, the mild-mannered scout, he would surely be dead by now. The bullet that had pierced his arm had enough force behind it to cause a loss of balance and he fell from his horse. An Apache, riding bareback, charged at his fallen body with a filthy Winchester held pistol-style. Just as the warrior sighted on Jenks' chest, he was knocked from the horse by a well-timed shot from Troves' rifle. His arm still burned from the wound and he worried that it would soon become infected. He slid the bandage off to attain a closer look.

"Still afraid it's infected?" Troves asked, who currently sat beside him to watch the entrance. "If you need to, go pour some water in it. As far as I can tell, there ain't any plants I can use for medicine around here."

Jenks remained quiet as he slid the sweat-laden bandage back onto the wound. He was becoming more agitated with each droplet of sweat dripping into his eyes. Troves could see that the man was not in the mood for talk, so he settled down with a fresh cut chunk of tobacco pressed against his cheek.

Fells and Moreau, responsible for watching the ledges scattered upon the face of the cliff, had not uttered a word to each other, their respective minds busy with the matters at hand. Useless talk was not something they favored when unseen enemies threatened their life. 

Every few minutes, Alton and Corren would move about, searching for any signs of trouble. Corren was uneasy, due to the fact that the warriors had not attempted another attack on their encampment. It was likely that Silato and his men were searching for another route inside, if they didn't know about it already. Corren had the distinct feeling that he had overlooked something, but could not place his finger on it. 

"Why are they waiting so long?" Alton asked. "We've been in here all day and not once have they tried anything."

"I was thinking the same thing. Apaches are known for their patience, but they outnumber us at least two to one. Those odds are too much for Silato to pass. He knows there are only six of us and I'm wonderin' why he hasn't rushed us."

Corren glanced at the sky and watched as the sun began to dip below the western horizon. He had a bad feeling that at least one man would not make it through the night.

Hiding behind the thick foliage of the bushes, Silato patiently watched the men in camp. They seemed to be very alert, but then again nobody had found his position. Most of them remained in one position in order to guard the entrance and the cliffs. Only Crazy Wolf Killer and his young companion moved about in the open space. Silato could tell by the white warrior's movements that he was concerned about something, more than likely wondering why an attack had not been organized yet.

Remaining motionless, he watched his enemy stroll from position to position. More than once, the white man passed within mere feet of the hidden crack in the wall where Silato was hidden. And each time he came near, Silato averted his eyes so that the man would not feel them upon his back.

The sun had finally dipped completely below the western horizon; all that remained was the dusky twilight and the beginnings of the stars. Silato had already decided to wait until the moon and stars were high above and the men becoming sleepy. He had already chosen his first victim and it was not Crazy Wolf Killer. At least, not yet.

A soothing coolness enveloped the air soon after the sunlight petered out. The intense and stifling heat of the day remained an unpleasant memory best forgotten, at least until the following day.

Troves gathered a few twigs and started a small fire sheltered by shards of rock, which he used to heat the last of the coffee. The soldier's own coffee was lost in the attack and could not be recovered. Most of their provisions had been on the backs of two stout mules, killed in the first volley of gunfire and arrows. One by one, the men carefully made their way to the comfort of the fire and gulped their share of the steaming coffee. It was a brief respite from the monotony of watching the canyon and they all felt a little better after.

A full moon rose high above them, accompanied by thousands of bright, twinkling stars. Had death not been the foremost consideration, the men inside the canyon may have enjoyed it, just as Silato did every time night came. The man he had chosen to kill firsr had lulled himself to sleep, his head bobbing up and down in its own rhythm. Consternation showed on the black scouts face as he observed the man's tired state. The scout looked quickly at Crazy Wolf Killer, who immediately went to the man and shoved him with the toe of his boot. The sleeping man fell sideways, his head striking a large rock, creating a dull, thudding noise.

Offended, the man tried to regain his footing, but was shoved hard in the chest by Crazy Wolf Killer, causing him to fall yet again on the rock. The tall man bent over and placed his finger inches from the fallen man's face. He began to speak in low tones, too low for even the alert ears of Silato. As Crazy Wolf Killer walked away, the sleepy man muttered something unintelligible before picking his rifle up from the rocky ground.

This man was not very smart, Silato decided. It was quite clear that the big man could easily beat the sleepy one, if he had a mind to do so. The fact that the man spoke in too low of a tone, so that Crazy Wolf Killer could not hear his ramblings, indicated cowardice and deeply angered Silato. His hand shot out for the bow and arrows, close by, but he stopped himself from grabbing the weapons. The waiting game would have to last a bit longer, at least until Crazy Wolf Killer's attention was elsewhere.

Midnight came and went with the men doing their best to remain alert, but it was getting harder as time went on. Because they had so few men, they could not afford to let half the men sleep while the others remained on watch, at least not tonight. 

Jenks was still fuming at the mistreatment he had suffered by the hands of Corren. After all, Jenks was exhausted from the previous three days of having to be so watchful for attack. It was not his fault that he had fallen asleep, nor was it right for Corren to have slammed him back onto the rock. Jenks had never been much of a man to partake in fistfights, but he wanted to knock every tooth out of Corren's mouth. How dare Corren, a lowlife gunfighter, insult a distinguished man of the United States Army! Well, maybe not distinguished, but a stout member of the Army nonetheless.

He intended to file a complaint with Colonel Edwin just as soon as he arrived back at the fort. Now, though, he was trying his best to stay awake and alert. Troves had moved a few feet away, ignoring the ignominious grumbling of the lazy soldier. Jenks sipped some of the cool water out of his canteen before he stopped abruptly, the canteen still at his lips. Something was happening to the hairs on his neck, causing them to stand straight up.

Just as he began to swivel his head to the rear, an arrow sliced through the thin mountain air and plunged into the side of his neck. The force of the arrow was such that the razor-sharp arrowhead exited the other side and stuck into the canteen. In shock, Jenks fell back and tried to pull the arrow out, to no avail. Breathing became impossible and he began to suffocate from lack of oxygen. 

Troves was the first to notice the fallen man, writhing in pain in the sandy dugout. The large black man crawled on his knees to the stricken Jenks and examined the wound by the starlight. Jenks' eyes were bulging out of their sockets and his mouth was wide open, attempting to force in any available oxygen. A gurgling sound escaped his throat as blood began to froth at his lips.

Corren, too, had noticed the wounded man kicking his bootheels into the red sand and rushed to his aid seconds after Troves. With all his might, Corren struggled to hold the man still so that Troves could attempt removal of the deadly weapon. Aside from the gurgling, no other noise escaped the dying man's lungs. Instead, he switched his attention back and forth between them, his eyes still bulging and pleading for mercy.

Fells, Moreau, and Alton had left their own positions and ran to the fallen man. All three stared solemnly at their fallen comrade, at a loss of what to do in order to help. Sickened by the sight of the blood gushing from Jenks' gasping mouth, Alton bent to his waist and vomited. It was not until Corren heard the retching sound that he realized that nobody was watching the canyon. He relinquished his control of Jenks and glared at the men, allowing the dying man to recommence his death throes.

"Get back to your positions!" Corren ordered loudly. "If those Apaches were to ride in here right now, we'd all be dead within ten seconds."

As he watched the men rapidly scurry to their posts, Troves stood up behind him and sighed dejectedly. Corren turned to see that Jenks' had halted in his movements and laid quietly, his still open eyes emptily staring into the night.

"Where was that arrow shot from?" Corren wondered.

Troves knew exactly whom had fired it, but not where from. "I have no idea," he said, as both men looked around. "But, I do know who fired it."

"Who?" Corren asked, turning his attention back to Troves.

"That's one of Silato's arrows. He dips the eagle feathers in blood; it's his trademark and I've seen it too many times to forget."

"And," he added promptly. "You see how far that arrow passed through Jenks' neck? It damn near went all the way through his canteen. Silato is the only one I know of that can shoot an arrow plumb through a man."

This was not good news to Corren. Earlier, when he had first noticed the outlaws riding in this direction, he had become agitated, knowing that this was the territory of Silato. Still, he had hoped that if he and Alton traveled fast enough, there could be a chance that they would avoid the man. Yet, that was not the case. And from the evidence of the arrow, he was certain that the Chief was in their immediate vicinity.

Slowly, he craned his neck as his eyes examined any area where a man or men could hide easily. The dark made this task immensely harder, but with luck he may have been able to spy him. Shadows from plants and rock alike played tricks on his eyes; his eyes lingered in some areas if there happened to be shape resembling a human appendage. Neither he nor any of the other men had seen the arrow enter the neck of Jenks, therefore the direction from where the arrow had come was not known. It upset him that his guard had been let down enough to cause the death of one of the men. His conscience was like that, though, placing blame where none could be proven. This aspect of him was well known to the very few men who were acquainted with him enough to call him a close friend.

He also knew of his reputation among the Apache people, who thought of him as an insane warrior, perhaps even a witch of some kind. The warrior who could bring about his death, Corren suspected, would be honored and celebrated by his people.

Corren desperately wanted to explore the dotted walls of their imprisonment, but was not foolish enough to attempt it in this darkness. It would be similar to tying a sack with an angry rattlesnake around his head for a long period of time. Only foolish men hunted for Apaches and snakes during darkness; or daylight for that matter. And if it was Silato out there, as was now suspected, then it was even more dangerous.

Troves had yanked the arrow from the dead man's neck and was studying it by the spare light of the campfire. His breathing was heavy due to the strenuous task of dislocating the well-placed arrow. Curious, Corren also crouched for a moment and examined it.

The arrow was handsomely crafted, composed of an indiscernible, yet strong wood, a razor sharp stone head, and eagle feathers. It was a thing of beauty, as deadly as it was. Corren was impressed at the craftsmanship of the arrow, quite unlike the other arrows he had seen in his years of traveling. Most Indian weapons, he knew, could be manufactured within a couple of hours. But, this simple-looking arrow showed signs of sanding to make the wood smooth, a very sharp edge uncommon in stone tools, and magnificent feathers showing no signs of wear and tear.

"These feathers," Troves observed. "Aren't they the finest feathers you've ever seen?" He watched as Corren nodded in agreement. "I wonder if that savage kills one eagle for every four feathers he takes. Seems to me, the feathers should be at least a little torn, but these look as fresh as the water over there."

Even the bloodstained tips of the feathers seemed to be in perfect alignment with one another, notched evenly into the glossy sides. Without warning, Troves stood to a straightened position and snapped the arrow in two. Disdainfully, he threw the remnants of the arrow into the fire, causing a slight rise of the flames. At first, Corren was a bit surprised by this action, but soon saw the reason for it.

Troves had done it purposely, in order for Silato to see that although they respected him, they also held his silence in contempt. Leaving Jenks' body for burial at another time, they moved to new positions. Corren instructed each man to not only watch their respective areas, but also the areas around the other men. One short glance could be all that was needed in order to save the life of another, in this dangerous canyon.

                                                **Chapter 8**

Dawn** was slow in coming, as the sun took longer to rise to the mountains, offering the men a chance to finally see their surroundings again. Cautiously, Troves moved to the still burning fire and heated up some more coffee, as well as an undersized side of ham. This was all that remained of their food and coffee, and every man knew it. When the food was finished, each man repeated the procedure of the previous day, approaching the fire one at a time and quickly consuming the food. **

The toll of remaining awake for the entire night showed on their haggard faces. Troves knew that the men would not remain awake for much longer. He brought this up with Corren as the latter sat upon a rock and consumed his meal.

"John," he confided. "We're all in need of a rest. I vote that we allow the men to sleep for a few hours. You and I, we can stay awake and keep an eye out. I'm not as tired as they are, and neither are you. We're used to this and they aren't."

"I don't know…"

"Look," Troves explained. "I know that we could be attacked any time soon, but in my opinion, it's better to have the men get as much sleep as they can. You never know, it may make a huge difference in their fighting ability." He paused and glanced at each man. "The way I see it, if we were to be attacked this instant, I'm pretty sure we wouldn't stand much a chance."

Troves was right, thought Corren. He, too, saw the bloodshot and puffy eyes of the men and was worried. The tedious task of staying in one position and adjusting their eyes to the darkness had, in fact, taken a toll. And not only on them, but Corren as well. The harsh, penetrating sunlight made matters worse, forcing the men to shield their eyes, thereby deducing important areas of viewing. 

"Okay," Corren relented. "Hopefully, those fellows outside are making their breakfast and waiting for the sun to come up a bit more. Go tell the men that they can have a two hour nap."

"But," he added importantly. "Tell them they had better keep their guns close by and their ears open. We can't do much to help 'em if those Apaches come charging in here and they aren't awake."

"Understood," Troves said, already on his way to instruct the men.

Relieved at their allowance for a short period of sleep, the men immediately curled up where they lay and promptly fell asleep. Seeing the men asleep caused a slight pain of jealousy to ignite inside Corren, as well as making his lids feel that much heavier. Unable to sit still out of fear of falling asleep himself, Corren arose and toured the perimeter of the canyon. He knew that Silato was more than likely still within the area and probably waiting for Corren to come too close. Realizing this, Corren kept his body away from the shadowy areas of the walls and scanned them intensely with his eyes. The uneasiness within him seemed to spark an awareness and wakefulness that he yearned for. 

As he walked, he made certain to watch the entrance and the cliffs as well. After all, Troves only had two eyes, observant as they were, and he could not possibly watch both areas at the same time. He made his way to where the horses were hidden and pulled up short.

Alton's sorrel was lying on its side, a deep cut in the base of his throat. A puddle of blood had gathered under the dead horse and Corren's chestnut stood near the surviving horses dozing undisturbed thirty feet away. Apparently, Silato or another Apache had coerced the sorrel a few feet away and sliced its throat with a sharp knife. This was very disturbing to Corren. For one, neither horse had indicated the arrival of an unknown man, allowing the sorrel to be led to its final resting place. Two, and even more upsetting, was the fact that although the horses were sheltered no more than fifty yards from the men, none had heard or witnessed the horse walking on the stone surface. 

Examining the tracks of the horse closer, Corren was able to answer the second question. By the shape of the scuff marks, he deduced correctly that the warrior had tied some sort of binding to the bottom of the horse's hooves, thereby silencing the loud clicking sound of iron shoes treading upon stone. Yet, the question remained as to how the man had calmed the horse's enough, especially his own horse, known to have an intense dislike of the wood smoke-like smell of an Apache.

Corren walked back to where Troves was positioned and related his discovery to the scout. 

"That Silato is a very brave man. He made us all look like fools. I expect he had a good time of it, too," Troves spat.

"I'm wonderin' why he didn't do the same to my horse. I mean, he snuck up to both, as they were tied together, and only killed the sorrel? That doesn't make much sense. He has to know we'll be watching that horse much closer now," Corren said. 

Troves was thinking the exact same thing. It seemed a waste of time to only kill one horse when he could have dispatched both of them. You sly fox, thought Troves, you're playing a game with us. According to various sources, Silato was not known to be an overly talkative or playful man. In fact, it was said that the man was too quiet, leading many to believe that he was either crazy or thought himself better than those within his tribe. But here he was, toying with them and probably enjoying it, too.

Corren awakened Alton first and explained the fate of his horse. Alton stood up quickly, his rifle held waist high.

"They killed Dory?" A single tear rolled down his cheek. "Now, why would they go and do a thing like that? Kill a good horse for no reason."

"We think Silato did it, letting us know that he can sneak into our camp and kill one of us any time he figures he's ready. Besides, Apaches don't have much need for horses, aside from eating them. Water's spare in this country and a horse drinks enough water for two or three men."

Alton was still upset. In the short period of time that he had owned the fine sorrel, he had attended to it lovingly, often sitting for hours talking to it. It was a gentle, yet sturdy horse; one any ranch hand would love to have for the arduous work of tending to surly cattle. Back in town, he had been offered large sums of money for the horse, but had politely declined each and every offer. Now that Dory was dead, he wished that he had taken one of the offers. Then, at least, the horse would still be alive, munching on green grass and drinking clean water. 

Knowing how much Reed enjoyed the company of the horse, Corren left him alone with his thoughts and memories and continued with the task of rousing the other men from their slumber.

Little Hawk was disconcerted by the long wait for Silato's signal. He had never been a patient man and felt that the Chief was trying what little patience he did possess. Wrong Way, an older warrior who was a cousin of Silato, was bragging incessantly to the other men about his supposed skill and conquests in battle. He was lying, of course, as the other warriors knew but listened to anyway. 

Little Hawk was in no mood for the droning of the old man and said as much.

"Stop talking, you old fool," he said. "I'm not sitting here all day to hear your lies."

Shocked at the obvious disrespect, it took a moment for Wrong Way to answer. "Who are you to know that I am lying? You are but a young and untested warrior. And you should not disrespect your elders. I will tell the tribe about your rudeness and you will be punished for it."

Little Hawk, much stronger than the older man, picked up a sizeable boulder and threw it at Wrong Way. The rock shattered in dozens of pieces at the feet of the old man and one of the fragments cut a gash into his ankle. Astonished, the injured man examined the wound with a look of terror. Little Hawk was amused by the painful wound and laughed aloud.

"I am afraid of no man. We are a band of outcasts anyway, so what punishment will they give me? Banish me from a tribe of banished people? I do not think so. I am a great fighter who only gets better as the days pass. And you are an old, weak man whose eyesight is getting bad. I think I could kill you and still be allowed to remain. If you are as wise as some claim, then you had better be quiet for the rest of the day. If not, I'll bash your head in with another rock."

When the offensive warrior walked away, Wrong way motioned for Kicked-By-The-Horse to come to him.

"Why would you all stand around and let Little Hawk attack me in that way? I could have been killed by that big rock and you would have to explain it to Silato yourselves," he said angrily.

The truth was, none of the warriors liked either of the combatants. Wrong Way, they merely disliked for his stupid banter and condescending attitude, but Little Hawk was disliked as well as feared. He was always confiding in them his intention to one day soon become their leader. Out of fear of retribution from the remorseless Little Hawk, none of the young warriors dare approach their elders with the disturbing intentions. What if he, Little Hawk, did one day take the position of power and he found out that others knew of this long before because of someone's confessions? Kicked-By-The-Horse and the others did not want to think of what would happen, as it would be too terrible to consider. Inexperienced as he was, Little Hawk was already showing traits common in the best of leaders and fighters. His ego was such that he also spoke of changing his name to something indicative of fierceness, once the time came for his power. Right now, though, he was content to wait for the change.

"I did not know that he would do something like that," Kicked-By-The-Horse admitted. "I think he is just tired of the waiting and thought that Silato would have signaled for us by now."

Wrong Way brushed this aside. "I do not care if he is tired or not. He is still young, while I am old. I would have killed him if he would have done such a thing to an elder of mine when I was your age, but you stood by lazily and didn't move a muscle. Am I right in thinking that you fear Little Hawk?"

The older man's eyes boring into his face caused Kicked-By-The-Horse to turn his head sharply. It seemed like Wrong Way could read his thoughts, and that was not a good thing. Too choked to reply, Kicked-By-The-Horse turned abruptly on his heel and walked away.

Private Joshua Fells was straining to keep his eyes focused on the cliffs above, but the glare of the sun combined with the salty sweat in his eyes was making it nearly impossible. It was mid-afternoon on the second day and still they had not been attacked. His eyes were puffy not only from the stinging sweat, but also from the lack of sleep in the last forty-eight hours. This morning, he and the men were only allowed a few hours rest, while Corren and Troves had stayed awake. Fells was amazed that the two men were able to remain awake for so long and still hadn't nodded off once.

Unlike his fallen friend, Jenks, Fells loved most things about being in the Army. He loved the rolling land upon which they traveled, the seemingly endless carpet of sky above, and even the occasional brush with the Indian warriors. In short, he loved being outdoors as much as possible and the camaraderie of his fellow soldiers. He was even able to tolerate a lack of food and water from time to time, as long as the time didn't last too long, that is. Adventure was what he always craved and he found plenty of it in the United States Army.

If there were one aspect of Army life that didn't appeal to him, it would be the lack of bathing and the stench that arose because of that lack. Raised along the Mississippi River, his mother and father demanded that each family member bathe in the river at least once a day. His father owned a prosperous general store along the banks and was able to afford the finest soaps available from the various traders frequenting his establishment. Including the present day, he hadn't bathed in nearly a week and it was quite bothersome to him. His wool uniform was wrinkled and scratchy from the abundance of sweat, creating an annoyingly uncomfortable situation. Every so often, he had to slightly adjust his position to put a halt to his itching fits. At any moment, he would have been glad to trade a month's wages for a clean bar of soap and a cool spring in which to bathe himself.

But, he didn't have the soap and he wasn't allowed to bathe in the waterhole. His sweaty smell he had somewhat gotten used to, but Sergeant Moreau's odor was an entirely different matter. Each time the older man came close, Fells tasted bile in his throat. Never in his entire life had he smelled a rank odor like the Sergeant's. If they lasted another week, which Fells wasn't sure was possible, then he was quite sure that the smell would eventually cause him to vomit. What rankled him almost as much was the fact that Moreau was his superior and Fells couldn't exactly reproach him because of the scent. Moreau was not one who took public humiliation lightly, so Fells was careful to remain quiet on the matter. No wonder you aren't married, you smelly pig, thought Fells. Moreau seemed to read his thoughts and turned to face Fells, a scowl on his haggard face. Fells quickly looked away and hoped that Moreau was not some kind of mind reader, as he now suspected.

Soundlessly, Silato crept to where his warriors were waiting, scattered around the smokeless fire. "What are you doing?" he asked.

The unexpectedness of his arrival caused the warriors to jump with a start. Silato stood patiently for the answer, holding his horse's lead rope between his fingers.

Wrong Way was the first to answer, albeit nervously. "We were waiting for you to signal us."

Silato was not pleased with the reply. "How would you see my signal if you are facing away from where I send up the smoke?"

This was a realistic question, as not a single man had been facing the general direction from which he had just come. This had long been a worrisome problem for Silato; for some reason the men in his band lacked the vital patience expected in an Apache warrior. In his youth, patience and silence were considered the most important virtues to possess in order to gain respect among one's peers. But, he was not young any longer and these particular warriors were entirely too inept compared to the men Silato had known during his formative years. This left him with a feeling of helplessness, as well as a certain weariness that he disliked.

"We have become tired during the long wait," Little Hawk objected. "It seemed like you were going to wait until the next rain before you sent up the signal."

Silato felt a red-hot rage boiling inside him due to this offensive remark. Often, long ago, he had maimed or killed men for much less. Every single man in front of him was lazy; if he felt as if it would do any good, he would have killed all of them on the spot. However, while the act would vanquish one problem, it would cause another to appear at hand. There would be twelve less men in his already dwindling band to help him fight back the intrusive whites. He was wise enough to know that one day, the whites would outnumber the fierce Apache to the extent that nearly every man, woman, and child of the tribes would be forced to live on a reservation chosen by the whites and forced to beg for inadequate food and shelter. Silato would never let that happen to him, even at the risk of an almost certain death.

It was while he was pondering this that he finally noticed the bloody gash on Wrong Way's skinny leg.

"What happened to your leg?" he asked the old warrior.

In light of the question posed, the younger men averted their eyes and stared at their feet. Wrong Way, though, knew he could not directly avoid the question. "A sharp piece of rock hit me," was all he said. More importantly, he did glance quickly at Little Hawk, who was barely containing a confident smirk on his handsome face.

For the second time in a span of just a few moments, Silato attempted to stifle a consuming rage. Unluckily for Little Hawk, Silato could not subside the anger completely. His powerful body sprang from the ground and slammed into the arrogant young warrior. Before Little Hawk could fall backwards, he felt the viselike grip of the Chief's meaty hands encircle his neck and commence squeezing.

With a flash, the glinting blade of Silato's large knife was held under his chin, causing some blood to flow.

"You do not disrespect the elders, no matter how much you hate their stories and their lies," Silato hissed.

Little Hawk could barely breathe because of the pressure against his windpipe. Silato stood before him, his black eyes as deadly as a rattlesnake. He did not speak again, nor did he expect Little Hawk to answer for the wrong he had committed against Wrong Way. A thin trickle of blood fell onto Silato's dust-caked hands and onto the red rocks at their feet.

For a moment, he thought about plunging the blade deep enough into Little Hawk's throat to end his life. After all, without the goading of the forceful warrior, the younger ones would cease getting into as much trouble as was caused by Little Hawk.

Fear was prevalent all over the suffocating man's face, now turning a shade of breathless white. Not wanting the man to faint, Silato slightly eased his powerful grip enough for a minimum amount of air to gain passage to his lungs. 

Little Hawk had always believed that he possessed a certain skill, one allowing him to read the emotions in a man's eyes. Through the dizzying haze caused by a lack of oxygen, he could see death in Silato's small black eyes. The older Chief clearly wanted to kill him for his transgression. And all because of a gash on an old man's leg.

There was a moment when he thought his life was going to end right there, but the moment came to pass. Instead, soon after he loosened his tight grip, the Chief let go completely and stalked off to where the horses were hobbled behind a cluster of rocks.

He untied a gaunt mare and brought her to where the dumbfounded men stood by the campfire. "Someone butcher this horse," he ordered. "I'm hungry and want to eat some meat."

Ma-te-nati, the owner of the horse was aghast at this order. He opened his mouth to speak, but wisely decided against doing so, out of fear of an immediate reprisal. Before the mare could protest the knife at her throat, Ma-te-nati sliced her neck and began to slice away the sections that his Chief preferred.

Troves was the first to smell the pungent aroma of the roasting horsemeat. His stomach had been growling for hours and the scent caused him become even hungrier.

"I think they're cooking up one of their horses," he commented to nobody in particular.

The other men looked indifferent, as their sense of smell was not as refined as that of the well-traveled scout. Then, with a sudden shift in the warm wind, the aroma soon crept into their nostrils and caused pangs of hunger.

"I ain't hungry enough to eat no horse," Fells said, sniffing his wrinkled shirt.

"Me neither," Alton said dryly. "I can't see myself eating meat from a horse, especially from a horse I happen to own."

"You'll be hungry enough to do it pretty soon, I expect," Troves argued, already eyeing Corren's chestnut, whose large ears lifted at the mention of horsemeat.

Alton and Fells, strong-minded men both, were not inclined to agree just yet. They had not yet experienced the hunger common among men living and traveling in the desert. Even Fells, a veteran of a number of battles in this harsh land, had been fed just enough by the Army to not worry about butchering his own horse. He banished the thoughts of eating horsemeat and resumed fantasies of being able to take a hot bath.

The remainder of the day and night was quiet enough, although the men were primed for fighting. Corren made sure that a close eye was kept on the surviving horses, but nothing happened to them. Each man was allowed another nap before the end of the day, including both Troves and Corren himself.

The anticipated attack finally came on the third morning following Corren and Alton's arrival in the canyon. An indescribable change in the air was the first indication; both Corren and Troves noticed it and shared a knowing look.

"I have a feeling," Troves whispered, as to not frighten the men any worse than they already were.

"Me too. Rouse the men quickly and tell them to be prepared as soon as possible. I'm thinking we're gonna get attacked any second now."

Keeping to the sparse cover allowed by the thinning plants and multiple rocks, Troves ran to the three men and ordered a state of readiness.

Only Moreau seemed unmoved. "I don't see nothin'," he said, his eyes scanning the ridges above. "Are you sure them Indians are comin' in?"

"Yes, I'm sure," Troves said shortly. He had no time to argue with the unlikable fool and moved to the next man in sight.

Sergeant Jacques Moreau grimaced and rubbed his throbbing back. The aching in his back and the emptiness in his stomach was placing him in a surly mood. One thing he didn't like was when certain people claimed to sense something that he could not.  Troves reminded him of the snake oil salesmen always passing through his hometown of Fort Griffin, Texas. They always claimed that only they possessed the cures to maladies that not even the best frontier doctors could cure. Mostly, though, the potions were a mixture of useless liquids without any healing power whatsoever. Troves was like that, thought Moreau. Always claiming he knew something or could hear or see something that nobody else could see, smell, or hear. It was preposterous, although Moreau admitted ruefully, Troves was without equal when it came to tracking Indians.

Five minutes passed from the time Troves came to warn him before he glimpsed a shadowy movement on the cliff above. Raising his rifle to his shoulder, and followed the fleeting brown figure through the sights. The crouching man on the cliff paused for a mere second and Moreau started to ease his finger back onto the trigger. Just as he began to squeeze, he heard the distinctive boom of Fells' rifle nearby and watched as the figure tumbled from the precarious ledge to the uneven ground below, landing with a hollow thumping sound.

Another figure raced along the cliff, desperately searching for any signs of useable cover. Moreau squeezed the trigger just a little too late, as the bullet smacked into the wall behind the running man. Working feverishly, he jacked another shell into the chamber and lined up for a second shot.  Again, the shot went wild, harmlessly striking a pile of rocks at the trampling feet of the man. Disappointed with his marksmanship, Moreau lowered his rifle and instead searched for any other available targets, preferably ones staying in one particular place.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Fells was aiming for the very man that he had just given up on. Amazingly, Fells looked as relaxed as he would have been on a duck hunt, his breathing even and his rifle steady and waiting. The rifle boomed and Moreau watched as the warrior grabbed at his knee just as he reached the cover he had been hoping for. Fells glanced over at Moreau and smiled the boyish grin so well known among the men at the fort. Moreau had never liked it and turned away in anger.

During a brief lull in the shooting, Corren scrambled across the clearing to find a better position for firing. Once or twice, bullets from the Indians rifles tugged at his clothing as he ran in a crooked pattern. He eventually found a suitable position; two small boulders surrounded by brush, with a crevice in which to rest the stock of his rifle.

Because of the winding passageway that made up the entrance into the canyon, the Apaches were able to find ample cover between the corners leading inward. Unleashing a wicked barrage of gunfire, a few of their bullets came quite close to striking the defenders. Luck was evidently on the defenders side, however, for none of the survivors had suffered a serious enough injury to prevent them from continuing to fire back.

The shrill scream of ricocheting bullets was heard throughout the sultry air of the canyon. Splinters of rock, wood, and lead floated lazily through the canyon like giant grains of dust and onto the men.

Fells' usually dependable rifle had unexpectedly jammed and he was working feverishly to free the firing mechanism of obstructions. A bullet creased his hair and another kicked dirt into his squinting eyes. Hands shaking, he ducked as close to the ground as possible, cursing his luck. His eyes stung from the tiny grains of sand imbedded under his eyelids, but he was able to remain focused on the task at hand and ignored the pain.

Corren noticed the predicament of the young rifleman and made his way to where Fells lay, shooting at any available target.

"What's the problem?" he asked.

"This damn gun won't shoot," Fells complained. "I think a piece of the cartridge got stuck somehow and I can't get it out."

"Here, take mine." Corren and Fells switched rifles as the older man worked the tip of his knife into the opening of the chamber.

Working quickly, he found the offending sliver of metal and scraped it out onto the ground. Using the sunlight, he peered closely inside the opening but could find no other impediment. Just to make sure, he raised the rifle and fired at a clump of brush on the cliff. 

"Keep an eye on it," he said, taking back his rifle. "There still might be somethin' in there. If ya find anything, just give me a holler."

"Thanks," Fells replied. Without losing stride, he resumed firing on the fleeting brown attackers.

Troves had already used most of his rifle's ammunition and had switched to his long barreled pistols. Corren immediately recognized it as the same Colt Dragoon the scout had possessed at their very first meeting. Old as it was, the gun still looked to be in fine shape. This was proven seconds later by the direct hit on a running warrior, who fell inside the entrance, clutching to a severe stomach wound.

Behind him, Corren heard a animal scream and turned just in time to see one of the horses fall. Thankfully, it wasn't his chestnut, but that still left them with only two healthy horses. Troves saw it, too, and dodged a hailstorm of lead to arrive at Corren's side, unscathed.

"Is there any place we can put them horses so they don't get hit?" he asked.

Short of forcing the horses to lie flat on the ground, Corren knew there was no way to prevent injuries and deaths from occurring. There was not nearly enough cover to conceal a standing horse, as whatever vegetation there was, it was too short for the tall horses to hide behind. And clumps of dried branches were no match for a speeding bullet anyway.

"No," he answered. "If you want, you can find a place near them and try to pick off any man that shoots at them. But, I don't think the pistol has that range."

"Best I can do is try, at least," Troves said. At once, he took off to where the horses were precariously hobbled, in the hope of somehow protecting them.

For more than an hour, the fierce battle continued with seemingly no end in sight. Countless shots careened of the canyon walls, searching for any available man or horse. After a time, the booms of the guns became less and less frequent, until finally they stopped altogether.

A welcome silence descended upon the survivors of the canyon battle, still tense and sweating profusely from the fighting. Alton couldn't believe that it had ended so suddenly and he voiced his concern with Corren, calmly standing a few feet away.

"You think they're gone?" he asked hopefully.

"No," Corren said, without pausing for consideration. "They're just taking care of their dead and injured. I expect that they'll be returning soon enough."

"How many you think we killed?"

"Hard to say, exactly. Apaches, if they can, will carry off their dead and wounded, making it hard to get a reliable count. If I had to guess, though, I'd say we killed three or four, with the same amount injured. But that doesn't mean that they won't make short work of us later, or call in reinforcements. Silato isn't one to give up so easily if the odds are in his favor. And since we're on his land, that puts the odds pretty high."

Leaving Alton with his thoughts, Corren crouched near the water and drank the soothingly cool liquid. His throat was parched and the water had the healing effect that he desired.

Following his example, Troves came over and drank beside him. As he got closer, Corren noticed that Troves was walking with a limp, favoring his left leg. At first, he suspected that the scout was injured, but soon saw the reason for the unsteadiness of footing. A bullet had gouged a large hole in the boot heel and left it hanging at an odd angle.

"Looks like you're gonna have to get yourself a new pair of boots once we reach town."

Troves smiled, a knowing smile alluding to the fact that the joke wasn't on him, so much as it was on Corren. "What? Naw, these boots will probably outlast you and me. I just need some glue and a few strips of leather and they'll be as good as new."

"I see. Well, I'm gonna take a little walk around. When ya get a chance, please tell the men to come drink some water. Make sure they do it one at a time, though. I really don't wanna see them all gunned down 'cause they were too busy drinkin' and not lookin' about."

He threaded his way through the sparse clumps of plants and sharp rocks. The strong odor of gunpowder seemed to fill the air around him, so he optioned to breath through his mouth instead of his sensitive nose. The horse that suffered the gunshot lay on its side, a small hole in between the ribs. The mare's breath was coming in shallow gasps and her eyes were widened in pain. Making a final effort to raise herself, she flopped back to the ground and pawed desperately at the earth. Knowing there was no way to mend the horse, Corren aimed his pistol at her head and fired a single shot, thereby ending her suffering.

The other two horses, agitated and frightened, tried to run off even with the rawhide hobbles wrapped around their ankles. Speaking softly, Corren was able to calm them enough to where they would remain still. He sat at their feet and set his mind to churning a plan for escape, no matter how impossible a task it seemed to be.

Due to the failure of his men and their pitiful attack on the soldiers, Silato was in a foul mood and ready to strike out at any and every man at the slightest provocation. Four able bodies had perished in the battle, while another three were injured enough to eliminate their chances of contributing to another attack. With only five men standing, Silato sent a single rider to gather replacements for the men he had lost, among them Kicked-By-The-Horse, by far the best horse thief in the tribe.

If not for the presence of Crazy Wolf Killer and the black scout Silato had named Fast Eyes, he would have charged into the canyon alone and exterminated every man inside. But only a fool would risk riding in there with the two hardened Indian fighters waiting for such a move. And Silato was definitely not a fool. Just the opposite, he was an extremely patient man, accustomed to long periods of vigilance; but that patience was starting to wear thin. He wanted to lash out in any way possible, and since his warriors were standing idly nearby, he decided to scathe them.

"You thought that with the white man's rifle that you'd be able to defeat them. But again you were wrong. Your aim with both arrow and rifle is the worst I have ever seen."

Silato was a true believer in the usage of the same weapons Apaches had used for hundreds of years. Primitive tools or not, the bow and arrow were good weapons in the hands of the right man, and easier to come by than the expensive rifles made by the white men. It was a rarity that Silato himself had a gun in hand; usually he only used one if there was a great distance between himself and his enemy. Otherwise, he preferred to use the bows, arrows, and lances of his ancestors. 

"We will eat the rest of the horsemeat later and take a rest. Just before the sun goes from the sky, we will attack again. This time, I want to see dead men in the canyon before you retreat. Any warrior that leaves before the blood of our enemies is spilled will have to answer to me. My wrath is well-known and any cowardice will be met by it."

The warriors met this command with silence, all except for the talkative Little Hawk. "What about Crazy Wolf Killer? Should we try to kill him, too? Or leave him for you to kill?"

"You can try, but I don't think you could kill him. You would do better to try for the other men and I'll take care of Crazy Wolf Killer when the time is right."

Little Hawk was not surprised at his Chief's apparent lack of respect for the warriors. Silato wanted it well known that he, thinking himself to be such a great man, was the best fighter and the wisest man. Anything he said or did was to be followed to the utmost by the younger men, but Little Hawk vehemently disagreed. To him, Silato was getting too old to be much of a threat. Sure, he was still an adept fighter and somewhat more wise than the other men, but wisdom and fighting skill matured with time. Time was not being kind to Silato, though, as his muscular arms and chest were beginning to sag slightly and his hair had obvious gray streaks flowing through like rivers of age. Soon, Little Hawk hoped, they would be rid of Silato forever and he, Little Hawk, would become the new leader of the renegade band.

Inevitably, in times of boredom or long waiting, William Troves would reflect on moments in his past. Almost always, it seemed as if his memories always began with the moments leading up to his departure from home at the young age of fourteen.

Born the only son to slave parents on a plantation in northern Florida, Troves had been forced to work from the time he could walk. His parents, both strong willed and tender in their care for him, found it too hard to accept that their only son would end up like them, living under a rule that forced him to work for slave owners under harsh conditions with little or no compensation in payment.

Although they worked in the ocean-like fields of cotton from sunrise to sunset, his parents were able to scrape together enough savings to purchase an old and unsteady horse, along with a broken musket. Unbeknownst even to their own son, they stashed the horse and rifle in an area where neither could be found very easily.

On a sultry summer night in the family's insect filled cabin, Troves awoke to find his mother and father standing over him, the coal oil lamp casting meager light onto their solemn faces.

"Get up, son," his father said.

"Where are we goin'?" Troves asked, yawning. He felt distinctly uneasy as the disturbance of his sleep in the middle of the night. Not once in his life had his parents awakened him in the middle of the night, especially with the following day promising to be another full of hard work.

"Don't talk," his father said sternly. "Just get your clothes on you and meet us outside as fast as you can."

Without another word, his parents opened the rust-hinged front door and stepped into the bitter darkness outside. Dressing into his only decent clothing, Troves listened for their voices, but the only sound loud enough for him to hear had been the high-pitched sound created by the crickets and other denizens of the night. Before following his parents, he took a final encompassing glance at his lifelong home. No remorsefulness was felt at leaving so abruptly, for the house of his youth had been more discomforting than sleeping outside under the stars, which he did quite often to escape the punishment of the bites from the blood thirsty insects waiting in the shadows inside.

His parents stood waiting near a decrepit wagon and walked off at a brisk pace as he approached. His mother, a frail-looking woman, was toting a huge flour sack over her shoulder and walking unsteadily under the weight of it. The threading of the sack looked as if it would soon burst, as the sides were jutted out disproportionably. Troves desperately wanted to offer her help, but decided against doing so in remembrance of the odd way his parents were currently acting.

He later determined that they had probably walked close to a mile before reaching a clearing in the tall pine trees. A single horse, lacking a saddle, stood there patiently while he dug at some roots with his rotting teeth. Taken aback by the sudden appearance of the horse, Troves stopped and was about to ask the obvious question---Whose horse is that?

"Son," his father said. "We want you to get on this horse and ride on outta here. Whatever you do, don't look back and don't let anyone stand in your way." Troves remained standing stock still, agitating his father. "Stop standing there like a deaf mute and get on the horse, boy."

Up until this point, Troves' life had been an exercise in monotony---always following the same schedule of meals and backbreaking work nearly every single day. As far as he could remember, he had followed his parents into the fields, trying unsuccessfully to avoid focusing on their terminally stooped figures. The years of bending over constantly had taken their toll and had caused their upper bodies to remain bent at an uncomfortable angle. His parents' suffering was often too difficult to bear and many a night it had simply reduced him to fits of tears. During these times of pain, he had often daydreamed about the seemingly impossible task of escaping. Now, in the starlit clearing in the trees, his pain-ridden parents were offering him the chance to do just that.

Not wanting to upset his mother and father any more than he needed to, he complied with his father's demands and jumped onto the bare back of the gaunt horse. Troves' uncommonly large body made the horse to appear humorously small once he settled into the cleft of its back. Without a saddle and the accompanying stirrups, Troves' shoeless feet scraped the ground below.

"Where am I supposed to ride to?" he asked uncertainly. The farthest he had ever been from his cabin was to the end of the plantation owner's road, merely a twenty-minute walk.

"You just ride as far west as you can go, until you can't see no more towns and people. It'll take a month or more, but I taught you how to tell direction and how to hunt and fish. You're a smart boy and you'll figure out what to do soon enough," his father explained.

"Why do I have to leave you and Mama? If I leave, Mister Dupree is gonna hurt you real bad."

His father waved this off like he had been doing to the pesky mosquitoes surrounding them. "William, we know what'll happen, but we're willin' to accept it so you can be free. It just ain't right, forcing a man and his family to work some white man's land for nothin'. And it never will be right," his father said heatedly. "And if you go far enough west, then maybe you'll be able to get your own land and raise your own family on it. You aren't meant to wind up like us, bent over like a cane. But, you have to go quick and ride that horse as far as it'll go."

His father crept closer and stared into his eyes. "Kill any man that stands in your way, William. I think you have a good chance of getting away."

Throughout his father's impassioned speech, Troves couldn't help but look over at his mother, standing quietly with tears streaming down her cocoa cheeks. She had never been much of a talker, but on the rare occasions that she was forced to, Troves could hear nothing but sadness and hardship coming through her words. All of a sudden, he had an overwhelming sense of foreboding; he knew that there was almost no chance of seeing his parents ever again.

His mother approached the horse and tied a length of rope around the girth and slid the tied end of the flour sack under it. Using her swift hands, she secured the rope and sack tightly to prevent shifting during travel. The sack was positioned so that Troves could keep it from swaying too much with his left leg.

Surprisingly, she used this occasion to speak to him in low, but loving terms. "I got you a bunch of dried fruit and bread in that sack there. Mind you, you better be careful about eating it too fast, 'cause it may be a while before you can get some more."

"Yes, ma'am."

"We couldn't get you much meat, but we did get you a musket and some ammunition. Use it wisely, though. Don't be off shooting no birds and such unless you're sure you can hit 'em." She smiled and wiped away the streaks caused by the tears. "You make your mama proud, William, you always have. Take care of yourself and do whatever it takes to stay alive. If things change sometime in the future, you come on back and pay us a visit, you hear?"

"Yes, Mama," he said agreeably.

Standing on the tips of her calloused feet, she was able to plant a kiss on Troves' face. It had been the first kiss she had given him since he was a small child and it saddened him, the finality of it all. As quickly as her disabled body would allow, she scrambled back into the darkness and out of sight of her son. Troves opened his mouth to tell her that he loved her, too, but it was too late. Searching for something to say, he turned to his father.

"Daddy, please tell Mama I love her. Can you do that for me?"

Stepping forward, his father patted Troves on his leg. "Sure, son. But, she already knows that, you know. We've never been a family of loving words, but she knows that. Take good care of yourself like your mama told ya. Build yourself a house that I'd be proud of."

He stepped back as if he wanted to say more, but he didn't. Like an illusion, he disappeared from the clearing and Troves was left all alone for the first time in his life.

He left that night, and following his father's orders, didn't look back. Following the end of the Civil War, he had pondered going back to his birthplace to find his family, but a relative passing through Texas informed him that they had been dead for five years, having passed away within weeks of each other.

Their deaths alone didn't bother Troves as much as knowing their demise came before they could finally gain the one thing they wanted in life, and that was, simply put, Freedom. A terminal wanderer, Troves never stopped long enough to build the house and raise the family of his father's wishes. Instead, he gained something else, something that would have made his parents just as proud of him. He gained the ability to read and write, with the help of strangers in the wide-open land of the West.

                                                                **Chapter 9**

His short period of reminiscence over, Troves motioned for his friend, Corren to come and sit beside him.

"We haven't had much time to talk with those Apaches around and all, but I'd like to hear a little more about those fellows you're tracking."

Corren sighed and took a seat beside his old friend. "Well, from what I can gather, I'm after four men. One of them was injured by Reed and I don't know hoe he rode so far. He left a damn river of blood behind him."

"You said the leader of the gang was Jefferson Parsons. Last I heard he was traveling with Daz Morgan."

"Was involved with Daz Morgan," Corren said shortly.

"Was, huh? Did you already kill him or was it that young fellow you brought with ya?"

"No, I didn't kill him and neither did Reed. He challenged me and I shot the hell outta one hand and broke the other. Ran him outta town in front of a passel of people, so I doubt I'll be seeing him any time soon."

"Then, who are the boys that are traveling with Parsons?"

"Tran Jackson, Simon Pretlow, and Henry Brady."

"Henry Brady?" Troves looked a little hurt. "I used to ride with him back before you and I met. I'd known that he was roughing it up on the wrong side of the law, but I didn't think he'd ever take part in the killin' of a woman."

"Well, he was there. Reed recognized him from some of the wanted posters hanging around Parsons' office. Whether or not he knew that they were gonna kill Rena is no concern of mine. He's as guilty as the rest of them and I'll deal with him, too."

Troves had no comment. After all, time could have an adverse effect on any man, and Henry Brady appeared to be such a man. The killing of an unarmed woman, in a land where females were greatly outnumbered, qualified as an unforgivable offense. Even if Brady had no intention of murdering a woman, he was still an accomplice and just as guilty as the others. If his old friend should die at the hands of Corren, then so be it, for he rightly deserved it as far as William Troves was concerned.

He decided to turn the conversation back to Morgan. "It's good you messed up that gunman's hands. That means it'll be a while before he goes and shoots down some innocent farmer or sodbuster." He paused a fanned his sweat-laden face with his worn hat. "Have you figured out where Parsons and the others are headed?"

"Not really," Corren admitted. "But if I have to follow those sonsabitches to Hell and back again, that's just what I'll do."

From the heated way in which Corren stated this, Troves couldn't help but believe him. "Don't you find it to be a little odd that Silato and his boys didn't waylay them on the ride through here? I wouldn't think that the old fox would miss a group of four riders."

Corren had been thinking that exact thing since his arrival in the canyon. After all, the Apaches were able to find and ambush a troop of cavalry, as well as he and Alton. So, why not a group of ignorant outlaws? It struck him either as a bit of good luck on the outlaw's part, or a lot of bad luck in his case.

"Yeah. I'm thinking maybe they were seen, but for some reason or other, Silato decided to ignore them and instead focus on you and that troop. Besides, you're just as wanted by the Apaches as me. If I was Silato, I'd like to think I woulda picked you, too."

Much of Troves reputation as a fearless Indian fighter and tracker came as the result of many a battle with the Apache on their home turf. Counting coup on the black scout would be seen as quite a feat among the desert dwellers that considered fighting and dying to be a way of life. Troves had come out the victor on many occasions, so he was not to be taken as lightly as less experienced Army men. Troves death would indeed be celebrated by many a man, and not just in the hot deserts of the southwest. His exploits were known from the northern area of Mexico and all the way up to the Dakotas and lands of the Plains Indians. 

Troves' attention was focused on the younger Alton, presently trying to hide his quaking hands between his knees. "That boy ain't too bad of a fighter. With a little more practice, I'd bet you he'd be as good as you," he said, winking. "I think he's a little ashamed, though, at not being able to control those shaking hands of his. Remember when your hands did the same thing, back when you were just a young buck?"

Troves remembered too much, Corren decided. Upon their first meeting, Corren had been a raw recruit in the Army, while Troves had already established himself as the best and most reliable scout in Arizona and New Mexico. Following his first skirmish with a group of Apaches just south of Yuma, Corren's hands began to shake violently and he was not able to make them steady again for nearly an entire day. Many of the men camped nearby found it to be quite funny and prodded him while the embarrassment caused his face to flush a deep shade of red.

Luckily, it had been Troves who approached him, and he didn't seem overtly concerned with the shaking. The big scout moved with an unusual swiftness and grace not often found in men of his size. This was the first time Troves had even really glanced at the frightened Corren, as he usually tended to camp alone at night and away from the boisterous soldiers and their smuggled alcohol. But, as he was riding by observing the wounded, he happened to see Corren struggling to keep his hands from shaking. 

Troves went to the fire and poured a tin cup full of coffee, which he brought to the young Private.

"Drink the coffee, Private," Troves said in a fatherly voice. "It'll help calm those frayed nerves of yours."

Reluctantly, Corren took the cup in both hands and as carefully as he could manage, brought it to his cracked lips.

"Drink it up," Troves said. He had a friendly smile on his face as he looked at Corren. Leaning in closer, he began to whisper so that the other men couldn't hear what was being said. "Listen here. Don't you be ashamed of those unruly hands of yours. It's a natural reflex that certain men have when they've just been in a gunfight. Or a fight of any kind, for that matter. Every one of those rascals behind me has had the same thing happen to them at least once. Trust me, I should know. I've personally seen it happen quite a few times."

"Really?" Corren asked, feeling enthused by the unexpected news.

"Yep. So, just remember---if they get to joshin' you, just remember what I told you. Keep it to yourself, though. There's a certain amount of power a man has over another if he knows something he shouldn't know. And if you keep quiet about what I just told you, you'll have that power over them."

Corren was speechless at the thought of power over another man without having to do or say anything at all. Before Corren could get around to thanking the wiser man, Troves mounted his horse and rode off without another word to anybody, including the Captain of the troop.

Later, Troves and Corren would become close friends, with the knowledgeable Troves teaching the younger man the ways of the desert and the art of tracking elusive prey, whether it be animal or man. It was also Troves who inspired Corren to read as frequently as possible, even though at the time Corren was suffering from too little in the way of a good education. Corren couldn't believe that a hard man like Troves could find the time to read, much less learn how to. Troves merely brushed this aside, explaining in a vague way that a mountain man in the Dakotas had taught him the basics while holed up during a long winter. Troves taught himself the rest and was very knowledgeable on a variety of subjects, more than any man Corren had met in his youth.

Lounging beside hundreds of campfires throughout the West, they had finished numerous books and critiqued and discussed each before going to sleep. This had confused the other soldiers or hunters who happened to be near, as most of them lacked even the most basic education. Names like Socrates and Machiavelli the other men meant nothing to them, and they deemed the names as made up by two imaginative men.

One night, camped at the border of Oklahoma and Texas, two buffalo hunters had wandered in and joined the soldiers to a meal of fresh antelope meat. After the meal was over, Troves and Corren retreated to the edges of the fire and began their nightly ritual of reading and discussing literature. Unbelieving, the two buffalo hunters had stared in awe at the sound of the unfamiliar names and words being uttered from the black man and the baby-faced Private.

Rollins, the bigger of the two, could not keep his thoughts to himself. "Well, I'll be damned if that ain't the derndest thing I ever did see. A Negro and a young white feller talking about poetry and such around a campfire? What about you Spivey? You ever have seen anything like that?"

Spivey, an obviously slow thinker, debated quietly to himself for a matter of minutes. Rollins was used to such peculiarity from his companion and waited, chewing on a particularly tough slice of meat.

"Nope," Spivey eventually said.

Rollins looked relieved that his friend had actually answered the question. A lifelong friend, Spivey sometimes took hours to ponder over the simplest of questions, especially ones that forced him to turn to old memories.

"Well, me neither." Rollins stood up and looked down at his friend. "I jus' got me an ideer. Why's not tie those gents up and take them in our wagon? We can ride around with them and charge people a dollar just to hear them talk about those fancy books. What do you think?"

Again, Spivey was at a loss for words. As far back as he could remember, he had relied on Rollins to do the thinking and deal with any business matters that arose, such as the selling of their buffalo hides to the traders. And now, frankly, Rollins was asking his advice on a matter of importance, money always the most important thing in Rollins' mind. Spivey picked up a twig and toyed with the hot embers at the bottom of the fire. His mind was churning so fast he was afraid that his head would explode.

"I s'pose that'd be a good idea, Rolly." Spivey was amazed with himself. The words had come out of nowhere and he couldn't stop them. Thankfully, Rollins' face lit in a satisfied smile.

"Well, it's settled then. Come with us, fellers. We'll make you rich."

As politely as possible, Troves and Corren had declined the offer, not that it was impossible to imagine them as a sideshow attraction in certain areas of the more unimaginative towns. The buffalo hunters looked offended; well, Rollins at least, for it would be a while before the rejection would seek its way into Spiveys mind so that he, too, should become upset.

They gathered their belongings back into the wagon, including the extra coffee they had promised to give to the troops. Rollins wasn't about to leave some precious coffee with a group of unkind men. He mounted the wagon seat next to his friend and turned to Troves and Corren.

"Don't come cryin' to me when them Injuns come and take your scalps. You coulda been rich, all of us coulda. But, since you done turned me down, I'm not goin' to leave any coffee with ya. Let's go, Spivey."

The wagon took off at high speed and left a cloud of alkali dust that covered the troops and their horses. Only Troves and Corren were able to ignore the obvious slight, thoroughly enamored with their books.

In time, Corren would become a voracious reader and an able teacher of matters related to many subjects, including Philosophy, History, Military Strategy, and Politics. He was also able to figure out ways to acquire books not found in stores on the frontier from methods taught to him by Troves. His saddlebags were never without at least one book and he read at any possible chance, although with the fighting of late he didn't have any time to do so.

"I suppose I can go talk to the boy," Corren admitted. "Maybe it'll help pay back a little of the debt I owe you, but not too much."

"You do that, John," Troves said. "I'm gonna catch up on some shut-eye if ya don't mind."

Tilting his hat brim over his eyes, Troves was fast asleep.

Corren silently approached Alton from behind. "How are ya holdin' up?" he asked.

The unexpected voice from behind caused Alton's hands to leap from their place of hiding between his knees. Embarrassed, Alton jammed them back into place, but Corren had already seen the extent of the damage.

"I'm doing fine, I guess," Alton said uneasily. He found that his shame was so much that he was unable to look Corren directly in the eyes. Instead, he focused on the reflections of the rock walls on the surface of their diminishing supply of water.

"I see your hands are shaking a little," Corren volunteered, searching for any soothing words. Just when Alton was debating whether he was to be admonished for the show of weakness, John Corren, the legendary gunfighter and scout, said something quite unexpected. "I remember when my hands did that exact same thing. They shook for what I think was damn near an entire day and I couldn't do anything to make them stop."

"Really?" Alton asked. He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"Yep. It's a common thing, though. Your nerves aren't used to such fearsome fighting and tend to get a little shaken up. They'll eventually stop and you won't remember it at all, unless a black scout reminds you."

Still somewhat uncomfortable, Alton was not able to grasp the intentional joke. Corren shook his head and walked off to tread around the canyon. Watching the man, Alton found himself smiling. Well, if it happened to him, it probably ain't that bad that it's happening to me, he thought. His hands were shaking just as much as before Corren had come over to talk to him, but he didn't mind it so much and removed them from their hiding place.

A few hours before dusk, Silato gathered his warriors around the fire and outlined his plan of attack. He had decided to accompany the men into battle instead of idly watching from his yet undiscovered hiding place.

"We will not fail this time. Nobody leaves until Crazy Wolf Killer and the others are spilling their blood into the ground of our ancestors."

Surprisingly, every one of the warriors nodded in agreement, including the frequently disagreeable Little Hawk. What Silato didn't know was the Little Hawk saw Silato's participation as a chance to remove the Chief from a position of power. He intended to do this in the heat of the battle, when the firing was so heavy that men would not be paying attention to where each bullet came from.

"I think that your plan will work, Silato. Lead us into battle and help us slay those who trespass on our land," he said confidently.

Silato was not a foolish man and suspected an underlying current of something else. He decided it would be wise to keep an eye on the irascible Little Hawk.

"Come," he said simply, beginning his climb up the trail leading to the cliffs.

Jacques Moreau was nodding off from lack of sleep when the arrow sailed from above and plunged into his chest. Shocked, he opened his mouth in wordless protest and stared at the quivering hilt of the thin arrow.

He wanted to scream out for help but another arrow struck him just below the first. Desperately, he jumped to his feet and tried to run for cover, but it was too late. He found that he could not catch his breath all of a sudden. Troves saw the protrusions from the man's chest and moved as quickly as he could to the aid of the man, who was now on his knees, staring blankly at his surroundings.

"Get ready!" he yelled to the other men, lowering Moreau's big body to a soft patch of sand. "They're coming again."

He took the Sergeant by his arms and dragged him to a shallow wallow, which offered some protection from above. A chorus of gunshots resumed from above and bullets began to smack into the walls and the sand around the men. Corren and the others had instinctively found cover at Troves' warning and were firing back.

"Stay as still as you can," Troves warned Moreau. "I'll be back to check on you as soon as possible."

Moreau wanted to form a protest and keep the man by his side, but the shock had not worn off and he couldn't form the words he wanted. Fear soon mounted uncontrollably inside Moreau, a fear of dying alone in the canyon. He could hear the loud shots from above, as well as the corresponding shooting of his friends, but it was not enough to know they were nearby. He felt more alone than he had in his whole life and wanted to cry.

Expecting to feel pain from the arrows, he was surprised to have a numbing feeling envelope his entire body. It was comparable to the occasions when his feet had fallen asleep from long hours in the saddle, but he knew that this was indicative of something much worse. He began to choke and put his hand to his mouth, only to have it come away with blood and granules from his lung. It had not dawned on him that he could possibly be hit in the lungs, but now he knew. In his years on the frontier, he had seen many men die from wounds to the chest that didn't appear to be very serious. But, if that man was hit through a lung, he usually died whether or not they had an able sawbones around. His mind worked over possible solutions and he could find none to prevent his dying.

"How's the Sergeant doing?" Fells asked Troves during a lull in the shooting.

"Looks hit pretty bad," Troves admitted. He looked over to where Moreau lay, the only proof of his habitation being the feathers of the arrows plainly in view above the soft mound of earth protecting him. "Two arrows in the chest isn't a good sign and I don't have the time to take them out."

"You think those arrows came from Silato?" Fells asked pointlessly.

"I imagine so. As far as I can tell, he's the only one here that still uses the old weapons instead of guns. As you can tell, he isn't too bad with them, either. He's already killed two of our men and half of our horses. And none of those other sorry rifle shots have hit us with a straight shot yet."

"Good shot or not, if he shows his ugly head up there I'm gonna shoot his eyes out," Fells said confidently.

Troves was proud of the young man for his confidence and bravery. Most of the young men he had met had shied away from battle, but Fells was just the opposite. His aiming was extraordinary and he was uncommonly patient in waiting to line up a shot. Of all the men, he still had the largest reserve of ammunition and had probably done the best shooting. He nodded his head in agreement with Fells' statement.

Moreau found it curious that he couldn't feel the pain and he was now shivering, even thought it was still hot, as the sun was still giving off its final heat of the day. The strength that he had relied on for so long was ebbing slowly away and he felt helpless. Helpless or not, he soon decided that the arrows were coming out and would not be stuck in his chest when he did die. The arrows sticking out reminded him of the pins used in the voodoo dolls he had discovered near his childhood home. Curious as to what they were, he had brought them into the house, much to the consternation of his stern father.

"Get those out of here, now!" his father had yelled. "Those dolls represent evil and I won't have them in this house."

Obeying, Moreau had thrown them out of the window, even though he felt angry inside. His father then grabbed his arm and shook him so violently that his neck hurt for days afterward.

"Boy, those dolls are made by voodoo witches. They are for hurting innocent people and we will not have them in this house. Do you understand me?"

Tears in his eyes, Moreau had nodded. That was the first and last time Moreau had seen his father so emotional. Even when he was on his deathbed, Pierre Moreau had been silent and had accepted his death without worrying about how his family would feel at their loss.

Ironically, this was the first time that Moreau had thought of that day he had found the dolls in many, many years. Now, he felt, he looked like a rather large voodoo doll, only he wasn't hurting other people. It was he that was hurt instead.

A single lizard darted across some black rocks and paused to stare at the unthreatening man on the ground nearby. Its green head cocked curiously from side to side, watching the still figure on the ground. Deciding that food was more important, the lizard resumed its running and disappeared from sight.

Focusing his attention on the azure sky above, Moreau placed a hand on each arrow and held his breath. He summed up his strength and counted to himself. One…..two….three, and yanked upwards as hard as he could. His strength was such that both arrows came out at once, but at a price.

The numbness dissipated and was replaced with a searing pain the tore through his body. A primal scream escaped from his mouth and reverberated around the canyon walls and blood began to seep from the jagged wounds.

"What the hell was that?" Fells asked, disturbed by the hoarse sound.

Amazingly, Troves remained unperturbed and glanced to the spot where Moreau lay. The arrows lay atop of the dirt mound, their stone heads dripping with the blood of the Sergeant. "It's the Sarge. He's pulled those arrows out all by himself."

Fells' tired eyes widened at the thought of pulling any sharp instrument from his own body. He doubted he could do it, even if he was in Moreau's position, as the arrows had looked to be deeply imbedded. Certainly, it had to hurt immensely, evidenced by the screaming. He felt a certain amount of envy for the Sergeant, although he disliked him.

"That sure would take a lot of gall, I reckon. Me, Now I can't see pulling no arrows outta my chest like that. Could you?"

"Could I what?" Troves asked, not really paying attention.

"Could you pull arrows outta your chest?"

"I suppose I could if I was in the position to." Troves said it so nonchalantly that Fells was startled. Thinking over matters for extended periods of time was not something Troves usually did. Nonetheless, he had answered the question without hesitation. He looked into the sky while he was thinking and watched the sun dip below the tops of the canyon walls. Soon it would be dark and he was nervous at spending another night without food. His stomach had been grumbling nonstop, especially earlier in the day when the Apaches had cooked the horsemeat. An orange colored tint spread across the horizon and the beginnings of the stars could be seen clearly.

"You think they'll stay up there all night? I'm so hungry I don't think I can fight for too much longer," Fells said, matter-of-factly.

"I'm not sure. But, if I had to guess, I'd say yeah."

Moments later, the canyon's shadows loomed larger from lack of sunlight. It soon became impossible for the men to see more than a few feet in front of them. The cracking sounds of gunfire quickly diminished and were replaced with an eerie calmness once again.

Troves used the darkness to creep over to Moreau to check on his condition. Barely alive, Moreau's breath was coming in frothy gasps and his eyes were glazing over. Dried blood had caked onto his shirt and more was leaking out of the wounds.

"How are ya feeling?" Troves asked, unsure if the man could hear him. "That was brave of you, taking those arrows out and all."

Moreau found that his eyes weren't quite able to focus on the scout crouched beside him. Each time he tried to focus on something, he found that the object wavered so much that he felt dizzy. At first, he assumed it was the shimmering heat waves that were causing his vision to fail, but now with night upon him it was cooler. Excuses aside, he knew that he was going to die before the end of the night, most likely much sooner. He was through worrying about it, for it wouldn't do him any good. Some things in life you just had to accept, even if it meant death. Every man's time came sooner or later and it wasn't their choice where they were going to die. A few of the men he had known in the past had died wondering about Heaven and Hell, contemplating where they were going. Moreau thought it a waste of time, trying to decide where a man's soul was going to go. If there were a Heaven and Hell, no man could definitely know where he was going. Moreau himself had done many bad things in his life and was not about to reflect on them all a wallow while he bled to death. 

"I'm dying," he said with accepted realization. "My body don't hurt as much as it did before, though. I can't feel nothin', not even my feet."

"Better to feel nothing than fee pain," Troves said softly.

Moreau closed his eyes and didn't speak again for a moment. "I woulda liked to see New Orleans one more time before I died. Ain't been back there in a long time. I miss the good ole Cajun cookin' my Ma used to do. You ever eaten a bowlful of gumbo, Will?"

This was the first time Moreau had ever referred to Troves by his first name. Usually, he addressed him with caustic remarks or didn't speak to him at all. Troves had been treated that way by too many men in his past to think much about it, but the fact that Moreau had called him by his first name was a little startling.

"No, I don't believe I've had the pleasure, Jacques. Tell you what, though. If ever I'm down in those parts, I'll be sure to step into a restaurant and order me some of that gumbo. Don't have much of a stomach for that spicy food, but I'll try it once."

"You do that."

Moreau started to say something else, but found that his eyelids were getting very heavy and he couldn't open them. A last burst of energy coursed through his body, causing it to buck up before settling back into the soft sand of the wallow. The cold was replaced by a welcome warmness that displaced all the thoughts that had been churning in his head. It felt so good, the calmness, that he smiled. He died with the smile still etched on his face.

The other men had approached during the conversation and saw the body bounce from the ground. Seconds later, they saw Moreau's body go limp and his chest seized to heave from breathing.

"Is he dead?" Fells asked pointlessly.

To ease his own mind, Troves reached down with his index finger and felt for the pulse. The skin on the neck was already cold and there was no response from the vein. "Yeah. Help me scoot some sand over him. We don't wanna leave him out in the open."

Repeating the process he used on Jenks, he used the dead man's rifle as a shovel and forced the soft sand over the body. Fells got down on his hands and knees and assisted, a frown on his face. He regretted thinking the bad thoughts about the Sergeant and his overpowering odor. Now, the man was dead, just like Jenks, and he couldn't apologize for it. Moreau had never known the distaste in which he was held by the Private, but it didn't matter. Fells knew and it weighed heavily on his conscience. 

Using the dead man's rifle, Troves scraped dry dirt over the body in the wallow and packed it as tightly as he could, lest the scavengers dig him up. The morose crowd of men came closer as Troves recited a prayer he had learned in his youth. When he had finished, he looked to the north and saw something that turned his blood cold.

Just over the canyon wall, he could see an enormous black cloud, better known as a thunderhead coming directly towards the canyon. Streaks of lightning were visible over the north wall of the box canyon, the eerie light flashing into the deepest shadows of the dusky land. The other men noticed his agitation and turned their attention to where he was facing. So surprised was Fells that he dropped his rifle onto the ground, too shaken to bend over and pick it up.

Weather had never been much of a concern for Joshua Fells, as rainfall and the occasional thunderstorm were commonplace around the land of his childhood home. More than once, he had witnessed the awful effects of the tornadoes that destroyed entire homesteads and towns. But there was something different about a tornado near his home with the storm shelter and the huge cloud in the desert. Out here, there was no place to hide for very long and each man was a potential victim of nature's unpredictability. From the looks of it, the cloud was not a normal thunderhead, but looked more like something unworldly and fearsome. And if Troves looked frightened, then Fells could feel the same without being ashamed.

  
                


End file.
